The Joke's On Me
by LilLolaBlue
Summary: Meet the Harlequin, Batman’s ward & the Joker’s little girl. She likes booze, blues, cars, guns, & men. She wants to be a hero, but she’s too bad for her own good. Only one hero's villain enough to show her the ropes. Is the joke on the Comedian, at last?
1. Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself

**THE JOKE'S ON ME**

**New York City, 1974**

**I. Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself**

**Liv**

"Yeah, yeah. The Joker did it to Batgirl, and the Comedian did it to Silk Spectre and now you're gonna do it to me, right? Well? Well?"

Blood and sweat ran from his hair and dropped into my face.

Well, Eddie told me, you gotta ask nice, and I was asking this son-of-a bitch nice, wasn't I?

His mask had been nothing more than a cheap knit ski mask, which I tore off his head after the first punch I threw at him.

He was an amateur, a fucking mook, and this was probably his first outing as a costumed villain, but he took the beating I gave him fairly well and I was impressed by that.

Impressed enough by his Ox-like build and his rough, Big Bad Wolf features to decide it was time for a bit of fun.

Now he was looking confused; I suppose my sudden willingness to ball him after I just finished beating him around the room was fucking with his mind.

What can I say? I was in one of my dangerous moods.

I decided to help him out a little.

I opened my legs.  
Wide.

"See? I'm not tryin' to trick you, am I? The suit unzips, and I'm not wearing panties. They look like shit under the suit, yunno? C'mon, man, you're goin to jail, right? Might as well have a little fun before you go."  
But I saw that lusty light go out of his eyes, and I knew I was out of luck.

I asked nice, and he turned me down.

Now, I know I'm not supposed to beat him up cos he turned me down, but nobody ever said I couldn't be mad.

"Shit! Another fucking candy-pants faggot prick! You supervillians aren't worth dick."

"Don't hit me again! I surrender!"

"Shit, if you woulda surrendered a coupla minutes ago, we coulda got somewhere! Now the only place you're goin is jail, asshole."

"Awww, fuck you. Like they say in the papers, you superhero chicks are crazy."

Fuck me, he says?

What a rude prick!

If he ain't gonna be nice, then neither am I.

So I got my hand out from under his arm, which I could have done at any time, and I gave him the old roundhouse to the face, and he was kissing the carpet.

I picked him up by the cowl of his stupid fucking plastic cape and dragged him all the way down into the street.

Eddie was still standing next to the bodega where the Green Jackal had pulled off his fabulous crime, forever to be recorded in the annals of supervillainy.

Tried to rob the store with a cheap switchblade.

Fucking amateurs.

Eddie hadn't thought the kid was worth it, and I could tell he still didn't from the way he was smirking at me from around his cigar.

"Another fuckin' mook. Jesus Christ." I said, tossing the Green Something-or-Other at the Comedian's feet.

"Wasted effort, kid. That was fast." He said.

"Yeah, faster than I wanted it to be. I coulda got lucky if I had my old costume."

"Lucky? With this prick? More like unlucky. Still, you prob'ly coulda taken this piece of shit in your old fuck-me-daddy costume. You never know, kid. Maybe he wasn't in the mood."

"Prob'ly not. I don't think the poor stupid bastard was trying to get somewhere; he was prob'ly holding me down so I'd quit beating the shit out of him. Where the fuck are the cops? Shit, do they think we've got all day?"

I started looking for my smokes. I keep them in the left holster with my gun, but they must have fallen out.

"Son of a bitch! You lost me my fucking smokes, you prick!"

I kicked him, just for good measure, the Green Whatever-the Fuck.

Every day it seems you get another fuck in a costume who wants to be a supervillain, and none of them are worth a shit.

Eddie laughed at me.

"Are you in a big hurry for something?"

"Yeah. It's Friday. I gotta go see my father today, and visiting hours at Arkham will be over if I sit around all day with this prick."

"Go ahead. I'll take care of it."

"Will yuh? You're the best partner a girl ever had, Eddie. Yunno I wasn't serious about fucking this asshole, right?"

"Sure you were, kid. You're the sexual revolution all by yourself. One more thing, kid. Don't you get into any of your fuckin' Trouble tonight. If you do, don't come cryin' to me unless you want me to give you somethin' to cry about."

I just looked at Eddie.

Why, I hadn't had my Troubles for almost three years.

"That's not what I was thinkin' about you givin me, Eddie."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm serious, kid. Go see your old man and then go home."

I couldn't figure out why Eddie was so fuckin' serious all of the sudden. I decided it was probably the crack I made about the Green Asshole.

At least that's what I thought at the time.

Good old Eddie Blake. Knows me better than I know myself, it turns out.

He gave me a chance where nobody else would. I know most people think Eddie' s a mean, rotten, son of a bitch.

Me, I know him, I'm his partner.

He's a mean, rotten, two-tone motherfucker of a son-of-a-bitch and you'd need a hell of a lot of powder to blow him to Hell.

But he's my partner, and I think he's a good guy.

You see, I couldn't get arrested in the superhero community. Not with a name like Trivelino J. Napier. The "J" doesn't stand for anything. Yeah, it's a funny name. Trivelino is another word for harlequin. That's me. I'm a harlequin. My father, he's a harlequin, too.

You know, Napier? Like Jack Napier?

Otherwise known as the Joker.

***

So I went home and got one of my cars, the new one, the Roadrunner, and drove all the way the fuck upstate to Arkham, to see the old man.

The old man. I don't know who my mother was, and the old man never mentioned her. I never asked. I mean he might have killed her, or something. I got a vague memory of something like that, I think. Then again, maybe he promised to pay her to incubate his spawn, and then killed her. Or maybe he paid her and sent her on her way. How would I know? With Dad, you never wanted to ask too many questions.

But I never worried about who Mom was. Things with the Old Man were always pretty cool. I mean, for a psychotic evil supervillian interested in spreading chaos for chaos' sake, he wasn't a bad father.

We always had a lot of fun when I was growing up, Dad and I. I had the most interesting toys. Hell, I had everything. Crime pays. And he told me all about the world, they way it really is. One big shaggy-dog joke. Call me crazy, call me a cynic, call me a nihilist. But the old man, he's an honest man, and he never lied to me about what he was, or about the world.

Most of what I learned, the Old Man taught me himself. If he wasn't planning on doing anything to gruesome, he always let me watch him work. Which comes in handy now, I can tell you.

He spared no expense. Nothing was too good for me; I was Daddy's Little Girl. I had private tutors, and if I didn't like them, they disappeared. Disappeared into the East River, probably. Like I said, I never asked questions. Dad usually kept the nastier parts of his work away from me; he always said I should do as he said and not as he did.

You see, the Old Man, he gave it a lot of thought, and decided he didn't want me to grow up to be a supervillain.

He always said the hours were lousy and you could never get good help.

They usually don't let you go in the cells at Arkham, but since I'm the Harlequin, I get special privileges.

They had him in the goddamn straitjacket again. I mean all he has to do is breathe and they put him in the straitjacket again.

No wonder he's always so fucking hostile when he gets out, the way they treat him while he's inside.

"Shit, do they have you in the straitjacket, again, Dad? Lemme get you out of that."

"No, no, Liv. I'm learning how to get out of it myself. And I've nearly got it…there. Just like Houdini. I must say, you do have a lot of time locked up in here to improve your mind. Pull up some padding and have a seat. So, how's business? Catching any bad guys, lately? Getting rid of my competition?"

"Nobody interesting. Common criminal fucks. Muggers. Bank robbers. Dope pushers. Baby rapers. Just the usual scum. Anybody with any real vision is locked up in here. There's no good supervillains out there. Just morons in a cape and a leotard and their sister's tights. Pretenders. I can't wait till some of you get paroled. I mean, Moloch's always good for a laugh. Take this new one, the Green What's-His-Nuts. He has potential, but he's a candy-pants faggot and a mook. I dunno. It's the usual."

Dad seemed sympathetic; he made an effort to frown.

"That's the problem with these kids today. They lack vision. All they want to do is shoot up and cash in. They put on their mother's pantyhose and a ski mask and wear their underpants on the outside of their clothes and go mug an old lady and they think they've made the big time. What you need is an arch-nemesis. Take me and Bats. What a guy! When I'm feeling low down in this depressing dump, I start planning my next caper with him in mind. Maybe you can cultivate this Green Whoosie. If he has a name and a costume, he has potential. Cultivate it. Give him a reason to really hate you."

Dad always did give good advice.

"So what is your next caper, Dad?"

He looked real happy when I asked him that.

"You won't tell Bats?"

"Of course not."

"Tell you what. I'll tell you the part that I was going to tell Bats about, eventually. But don't tell him yet. I want it to be a surprise. I've been in here almost two years, so it has to be something…big. Something that shows I'm not some Fifties relic. Something new. I keep telling those old fuddy-duddies at the Society, that we have to get with the times. Bring in some new villains. Tune into your generation. Appeal to the average American. You know, diversify. Really get crime ready for the millennium. It has to do with shopping malls. And rock clubs. I know that doesn't sound like much, but I'm still working out the details."

"Dad, this isn't one of those kill everybody things, is it?"

"No. I've done that before. This is new. Different. Fresh. But enough about me. Speaking of killing everybody, how's Eddie? Still kidding around?" Dad asked.

"You bet. You know Eddie. He doesn't like it when things get slow. Too much government grunt work. Nothing big. So he's getting bored. So'm I."

Dad got sort of a worried look on his face.

"Now Liv, you know how you are when you get bored. If you're in here next week because you've killed six men with a rubber chicken and driven your car through a shopping mall to get an Orange Julius because there was nothing else to do, I'm going to be very upset with you." He said.

"I've never gone that far, Dad."

"Don't. Any good news on the horizon?"  
"Moloch's being paroled next month. That ought to get things going."

"Good for him. I'll have to wait for another six months. But Oswald's getting out, they say. It's funny how we need each other. Heroes and villains." Dad mused.

"Like peanut butter and jelly." I said.

For some reason, that made Dad laugh.

I laughed too.

I have to say, I enjoy a good laugh.

But, with Dad and Eddie around, yunno, I get a lot of them.

***

Dad went off to Arkham the first time when I was about seven, and it was a little bit after that when Bruce discovered me.

The old man, he doesn't have any relatives, so when they asked him who he wanted to look after me, he said Bruce Wayne.

And the Old Man knows that Bruce Wayne is Batman.

I'm not sure how it worked out that way.

Bruce told me once that him and the Old Man thought I was dead, for awhile, and that Bruce always blamed himself for it. Maybe that was why he took me in.

Or maybe it was because he didn't want me to be like my father. I suppose the last thing the world needs is two Jokers.

I'm not exactly sure if I became a superhero instead of a supervillian because I became Batman's ward. I mean, the old man never wanted me to be a supervillian and he finds it extremely funny that I'm a superhero, and hilarious that Batman finished up the job of raising me.

Maybe the Old man just thought it was a great cosmic joke.

I just hope they never kill each other, because Bruce is like another Dad to me.

Dad gave me things, and told me about things, but Bruce really taught me about the way things really were. You know, living with the Old Man, it was like being Alice in Wonderland, all the time. I guess Bruce had to work pretty hard to undo that.

When I showed interest in the hero game, he didn't give me any shit about it; he just started teaching me everything I needed to know. I trained with him, and with Sally Jupiter. Bruce is a good guy. He really is. He's a little fucked up, but anybody who puts on a mask and goes out with a toolbelt full of gadgets to fuck with people that the cops won't even think about touching, you have to be a little crazy.

Bruce isn't quite as crazy as Dad, and he doesn't kill as many people and he's got a highly developed sense of morality, but by the time I went to live with him I already though that the Old Man was a little extreme. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like a little disorder and chaos as much as the next hereditary psychopath, but Bruce has got a point about the world having to have some law. And when you're on the side of the villains, it's always a losing battle. There may not be a whole lot of differences between the sick, twisted fucks in the white hats and the sick, twisted fucks in the black hats, but the pay is better and so is the press and you stay out of jail with the white hat on.

That and you can at least tell yourself that you're Doing the Right Thing.

Whatever the fuck that is.

***

After I left the Asylum, I was feeling kind of blue, and I was hurting.

And I don't mean just hurting in the emotional sense, because my Dad was in the bughouse, again. I mean I was fucked up from the fight I was in earlier that day.

I didn't notice it at first, but while I was there with the Old Man, my side really started to hurt.

I went to use their john in the nuthouse, and I looked under my shirt because my ribs were hurting and I saw I was all black and blue. I know I should have just gone home and had Bruce take a look at me, or gone to the doctor, but I didn't want to admit that some amateur in a Halloween cape and a ski mask had fucked me up.

Anyway, even if I didn't go to a doctor, I should have gone home. Or over to Eddie's place. I even have this button on my watch where I can radio Dr. Manhattan to zap me to his lab. I work with him, when I have the mask off.

So I coulda ended up the night at home, or at Eddie's place, or watching TV with my friend Laurie, and seen some kinda doctor before I got too fucked up.

The last place I should have gone was some sleazy roadside roadhouse just off the Interstate, in the mood I was in.

Eddie told me to go home. I should have listened to him. I don't know how the fuck he knew what I was going to do before I knew I was going to do it, but he did.

I know he raises ten kinds of Hell when he's out, but it always depresses me, visiting the Old Man in that horrible place.

Now I hadn't had what Clark (Kent, that is) calls my Troubles for a long time, so I figured I could take it. You know, go in, have a drink or two, play a game of pool, piss, and leave.

The Old Man could tell I was gonna have my Troubles, and so could Eddie, but me, no, not me., I thought I was gonna be just fucking fine.

Yeah. And junkies can shoot up once in awhile and never do it again.

I'm telling you, I was feeling really fucking low. They were going to parole the Old Man early, and then they didn't, and that depressing shit with the Green Shitheel, and things getting kinda slow and, I dunno.

It was time, I guess.

Nobody's fucking perfect.

Or maybe I was just being a stupid, spoiled cunt.

But I didn't go in there with Trouble on my mind. I didn't. I just wanted to have a couple of drinks and go home.

You know how many times I've just gone into a bar in the last three years and had a couple of drinks and gone home?

Plenty.

I don't know what god me in the mood. Probably how sleazy the place was. Or maybe I had too much to drink when I was already in a shitty mood. Because I parked myself on the stool in the corner and started putting away the Scotch and Cokes. It was good Scotch, and I'm no alkie, but I can really put it away when I want to.

Tonight, I wanted to. I got in that mood I get into, the mood I used to be in all the time before I met Eddie and started working. Where I just feel like raising some Hell, just because Hell is there. Like I wanna tear a great big hole in the world and see what gets sucked out of it before it shuts again.

What can I say? I enjoy a little ultraviolence, a little chaos and disorder is good for me.

To tell the truth, I wasn't really that drunk by the time I told the prick who was changing the Zeppelin record I put on the jukebox to lay the fuck off or I'd kill him.

If he hadn't gotten smart with me, I might have made it out of there without anything happening, but, I know it's my fault in the end.

I didn't kill him. And I didn't kill the ten or so other drunken fucks that I got into a fight with, but I tore that place up.

I don't really wanna talk about it, too much. It's embarrassing. I mean if you want fucking details, you know, people were screaming and bones were broken and teeth flew like little red and white Chiclets and there was blood all over the floor.

And the barstools.

A little on the walls.

All that shit.

You should have seen the looks on these guys' faces.

For one thing, they couldn't believe that I was ripping up the joint on a whim because somebody changed my record, and for another they couldn't believe how badly I was kicking their asses. At the end of it, I walked out the door and they didn't. Some of 'em, they were out cold when I spilt and the rest were just scared shitless.

I stood in the doorway, and I had a good laugh, and the way I laugh, it scared them all even more.

"Thanks, fellas. I had a real good time. Maybe I'll come back again, next time I'm in these parts." I said.  
Now, this was the second fight in one day, and I had quite a few drinks, and all I'd had to eat was a banana and some cereal first thing in the morning, so even though I felt pretty good strutting out to my car, when the adrenaline wore off I wasn't feeling too good.

Not too good at all.

My side was really hurting bad from the fight with the Green Fuckface, and after taking a few more hits in the same place, I was beginning to get some serious pain.

Meanwhile, I was so drunk, and so pissed off, and in so much fucking pain, already, I was off my game. I mean, normally, when I get into a fight, they guys I'm fighting don't get a lot of hits in. This time, though, I got pounded pretty good, and I didn't realise it right away.

I had been thinking that since I just tore up some dump in some upstate hole just off the interstate that I'd be able to play it off any nobody would know I had gone off the wagon, but then I looked in the mirror on the visor in the car, and what I could see of my face through the one eye because that hadn't swelled shut from being blacked and bloody looked pretty grisly.

No way. I was gonna have to go back home and face the music.

I figured I could make it back to the city. I like to drive fast, but I really had the pedal down, trying to get home. I was going about a hundred and ten in the Roadrunner when I started to feel woozy, so I pulled the car over.

You see, back when I was having my Troubles all the time, I was forever smashing up my cars. I totalled two Mustangs and a Corvette Stingray between 1968 and 1971. And that's just the times I totalled the car.

It's a good thing I'm a gearhead, or I would have totalled more of 'em.

Anyway, though, I just bought the goddam Roadrunner not three months ago, and I didn't want to wreck it, already, or wreck myself, anymore, so I figured I'd better take it easy for awahile.

I put my head on the steering wheel, but that didn't stop it from swimming, and when I looked down at my canary-yellow leather seats, I noticed mine was red with blood, and I realised I was in a lot worse shape than I thought I was.

I started to get worried. There was blood running down my head over the eye that had swollen shut by now, and my shirt and my jacket were all red. That was a whole hell of a lot of blood; it meant somebody must have knifed me pretty good, and I had to get help, fast.

I though about getting on the two- way radio on the Superhero Distress Channel, but then I got to thinking about how I hadn't had my Troubles for a long time, and I was feeling like a real asshole.

It's not as if this was my first time I got hurt, bad, just the first time I got hurt bad when I had to drive across the whole goddamn state of New York at midnight.

I mean, the SDC is for when the Harlequin needs help with six guys robbing a bank, not for when Liv Napier gets drunk in some dive and ends up getting the shit beaten out of her for her own stupidity.

So I broke out the first aid kit, bandaged up my head and my side the best I could, and put the radio on as loud as I could so I wouldn't fall asleep, and floored it all the way home.

I was pretty close to delirious by the time I made it back to the city. I don't even know where I was going, but I ended up at Eddie's place by default, and I knew I didn't have enough jam to make it anywhere else.

He told me not to get into my Troubles and not to come crying to him if I did, and I hate to go and drop all my problems right into my partner's lap, but this time, I didn't have much of a choice.

**II: Eddie**

It was close to two in the morning, but the Comedian was not asleep.

He was still the living room of his swank penthouse apartment, in his ratty old bathrobe, with the TV on.

"Nothing fucking on. Shit. I pay out all this fucking money for this cable shit, and there's nothing fucking on."

The kid was not around.

The kid was always around on a Friday night. She was crazy, but she was the kind of crazy you could set your watch by, and the kid was always around on a Friday night.

Eddie had another drink, and, standing by the bar, he decided he wasn't sitting the fuck around all night.

It was fucking Friday night. The kid was probably shacked up with that grease monkey kid she knew over in Bensohurst.

Well, if they were gonna fix some brakes on an old beater and then she was gonna give the grease monkey a lube job, Eddie wasn't about to sit on his ass all night.

He was about to go and get dressed when his phone began to ring.

Who the fuck was calling him at one in the morning?

He answered, and they hung up.

The Comedian stared at the phone, scowling other than business contacts and the kid, he wasn't exactly slopping over with friends.

So he took a chance on who it might have been.

Sometimes he got screamed at and hung up on, but he figured, what the fuck, and dialled the number anyway.

"H'lo?"

She was drunk, but that was OK, so was he.

He sat down.

"Hiya, Sal. Didja just call me?"

"Me? Naah. Eddie! Jesus, Eddie, how are ya?"

"Okay. Yunno, the usual. So, you gonna call me a cocksucker and hang up on me?"

"Did I do that last time ya called? Oh yeah, I did. I'm sorry. I meant to tellya that you were a rotten lousy son-of-a-bitch. Jesus, Eddie, isn't it late in New York? It's Friday, ain't it? Shouldn't you e out painting the town red?"

"Yeah, it's late. Fuck it, what the fuck they got out there, anyway? Fuckin' hippies and folk music and bars fulla junkies and faggots. Fuck 'em. I pay enough rent in this fuckin' hold, I might as well enjoy it. So, how's life, Sal?"

"Rotten. My kid never calls me, and she's sleeping with a nuclear reactor. The only letters I ever get are fan mail from boys young enough to be my grandson, and none of these old men are worth a shit."

"What about the boys young enough to be your grandson? How're they?"

Sally laughed her drunken old lady laugh.

"A lot better, as long as I wear the old costume. So it's degrading? What am I supposed to do, curl up and die? Become a nun? How's Liv? Staying out of trouble?"

Eddie took a drink.

"She ain't here. That kid's like a fucking clock. Ya never know what the fck she's gonna do, but ya know when she's gonna do it, and she ain't here. She's better not be havin' her fuckin' Troubles. You can only scare a kid like that into listentin' to ya for so long."

"Ya scared her? Howzat, Eddie? I know you didn't threaten to beat her up."

Sally laughed again.

The Comedian knew he was never going to live it down, about that fight he got into with Liv.

"Real funny, Sal."

"I didn't let you get the best of me, either, did I, Eddie?"

At the beginning of the week in which the Silk Spectre II was conceived, the Comedian received a visit from the Silk Spectre I in which she just opened the door and ambushed him, and knocked him all over the room.

While he was lying on the floor, picking up his teeth, she told him they were even, now, and if he was still interested he could come over on Friday, at noon.

He went.

"Some fun, huh, Sal? Those were the days."

"They sure were. Wudja do, tell her if she didn't toe the line you'd cut her loose?"

"Yeah. But, like I said. that'll only work with the kid for so long. She's just about at the point where she figures, fuck him, I'll do what I want. Someday she's gonna stumble in here with a bullet in her guts and die on my fuckin' floor if she don't wise up."

"Well you can't wise 'em up, can ya? Kids do what they want. You tell 'em, an' you tell 'em, and they give you that 'fuck you' look, and they gotta figure it out for themselves. All you can do is keep repeatin' yourself, like a goddamn moron. All I hear from Laurie is 'Look at you, whadda you know? Look how you turned out.' OK, fine, look how I turned out. At least the guys I fuck are all a normal color. I mean, Jesus, Eddie, I got nothing against the Doc, but if there was some big blue broad with no hair who was a fuckin' nuclear reactor, would you be sleeping with her?"

Eddie thought about it.

"No. Me, I like redheads." He said.

Sally laughed again.

"Awww, Jesus, Eddie, you were a rotten kid and you're a bad man, and half the time I hate your guts, but you're the only person who ever calls me, anymore."

"Funny, ain't it?"

"Hilarious. Hold the line, I'm gonna go get another drink."

That was when Eddie heard the key turning in the lock.

"Wait. The kid's here."

Sally Jupiter was changing the channel on her TV when she heard the phone falling on the ground on the other line and Eddie screaming "Jesus Christ!" in a way that sounded desperate and almost reverent.

The line went dead.

"Oh no." she said.

***

If he hadn't caught her, the kid would have hit the floor.

Her jacket was red with blood and so was her shirt; she was bleeding all over the rug and all over the Comedian, bleeding like she would bleed out if it wasn't stopped.

"Jesus Christ! I knew you were gonna pull this shit, kid! I fuckin' knew it! I shoulda picked your ass up and shoved you in my car and drove you upstate, myself! Now lookit you! Jesus Christ!"

"Hey, Eddie, I need a doctor." She said, faintly.

"Then why didn't you go to the fuckin' hospital, kid? Never mind. I guess I gotta do something about it."

The Comedian put the Harlequin on his kitchen table and tore off her bloody shirt.

A shoddy dressing that she must have slapped on herself came off with it and he found that there was a hole in her side, right between her ribs, with blood draining out of it.

"Holy Christ, there's somethin' in there! Shit, I gotta stop this bleedin', kid, or you ain't gonna make it to the fuckin' doctor for him to take it out."

He opened up the kitchen cabinet and got out a toolbox and opened it.

Inside were some basic first aid supplies, and some fishing line and a sailcloth needle.

"What are you gonna do, Eddie?"

"What we used to do in the Big One to keep a guy alive until we could get a medic. I'm gonna pour a shitload of alcohol on that bitch, and then I'm gonna sew you up so you don't bleed out in my fuckin' car. It's gonna hurt like a motherfucker."

The Comedian got his gun out of one pocket of his bloody bathrobe and a fifth out of the other.

"Have a drink. Now, put this in your mouth and bite down. Try not to scream, okay, Liv?"

"Okay, Eddie. I won't."

The kid bit down on the bullet and she didn't make a fucking sound.

***

By the time he was done sewing her up she started to get the sweats, and she was delirious, in and out of consciousness, talking out of her head.

The Comedian didn't even bother to get dressed, he just picked up his partner and carried her to the car and got on the road, trying to raise Bruce Wayne on the two way radio.

"This is Batman. I am receiving you, Comedian."

"We got Troubles. Harlequin's lost a lot of blood, there's a knife broken off inside her from this morning and she's been beaten up pretty bad, tonight. Can you handle this?"

He could hear Wayne cursing under his breath.

"Affirmative. Alfred was a medic in World War One. Bring her in. Over and out."

***

When the Comedian arrived at the Batcave with the Harlequin, they had everything all ready for her.

Even Superman was there, and for once was wasn't giving Eddie the usual dirty look.

"Clark's here for the x-ray. Put her on the table, Eddie."

The Comedian stood there, barefoot, naked under his bloody bathrobe, chain-smoking and watching the three men bustle around the table.

He picked up on what was going on, listening to them. The knife blade was pointing down, so it missed her internal organs. A cracked rib, or two, no broken bones. More stitches over her eye.

They had a sheet over her, and one of those hospital lights on, and when they turned her over he saw all the bruises on her back and all over her, and got an image in his mind of finding the place where the kid had gotten into the fight and finding the ten or twenty guys who had beat the shit out of her, and all the many ways he could kill them.

Then Kent was taking off a bloody white coat and so was Wayne and the butler and they washed their hands in the sink.

The light was still on and the sheet was still bloody and they hadn't washed the kid off, yet.

"Hey, are you gonna clean her up?" the Comedian demanded.

"Of course. You might want to clean yourself up. I can lend you a shirt and pants."

"I got clothes in the car. I guess I look pretty grisly, huh, Bruce?"

Bruce Wayne nodded, tersely.

"She'll be awake by the time you've got yourself together."

The Comedian looked over at the butler; he was moving the kid from the table to a bed with wheels.

Limp from the knockout gas, and all beaten up and bloody, she looked like a corpse.

In his mind, the Comedian was sealing off all the exits to the bar and lighting it on fire, standing there and having a good laugh while all those low-life motherfuckers smoked and toasted just like they would in Hell.

"Remind me why I decided to make the kid my problem in the first place?"

"I can't. I don't know why you did it."

"Yeah. Neither do I."

**III: Liv**

Well, as nights go, I've had much better ones.

I'm not too sure what happened after I got to Eddie's place. I remember him putting me on the kitchen table and giving me a bullet to bite and telling me not to scream while he sewed me up with fishing line. I got a real high tolerance for pain. In my business you gotta be tough, but it hurt so bad and I was so worn out already, I just blacked out.

I guess he drove me back to Wayne Manor, because when I woke up I was in the Batcave infirmary, in a hospital bed.

I was all cleaned up and bandaged and my bloody clothes were gone and somebody had put me in a clean tee shirt that was about three sizes too big for me.

Bruce was there, and so was Alfred, but he took it on his toes as I was coming to.

"Everything hurts." I said.

I didn't want to talk.

I was thirsty and I was in pain and I was sleepy, and I just wanted to have drink of water and pull up the blankets and sleep.

Bruce was hot to read me the riot act, though, and the way I had acted, I figured I'd better listen.

"I'm not surprised. You've got a concussion, and you won't be opening your left eye anytime soon. There's ten stitches over it. Your other lumps and bruises aren't too serious, but your face looks like it's been put through a meat grinder. The worst part is the wound in your side. It's very serious. Did you realise that the Green Jackal stabbed you earlier and you've been walking around with the blade of a cheap switchback broken off and floating around inside your chest, all day?" he asked.

"Why didn't I start bleeding, then?"

"The knife was so sharp that when the blade broke, it sealed off the wound. That was bad enough, but then you had to go out and get in a fight, and have somebody jam it deeper into your side, and break the seal the puncture made. Do you know how lucky you are? If that blade had been facing straight in instead of at a downward angle, it could have punctured your lung. Do you realise that when you came in here you were sewn up with fishing line? What if you didn't just happen to have a partner who picked up that old GI trick in the Pacific? What if you never made it home and passed out and bled out in your car, somewhere along the interstate? The minute you realised you were hurt, you should gotten to a doctor. Immediately."

"Well, I thought I just had some broken ribs. They can't do anything for broken ribs. I wanted to see Dad."

Bruce's face darkened.

"Even that maniac would have wanted you to see a doctor. I thought that you were past all of this. There has to be an end to it, Liv. Now."

"Okay, Bruce. Okay." I told him.

I couldn't stay awake, anymore, and then I woke up a little later when I smelled cigar smoke. To tell you the truth I wanted to pretend I was out of it, because I felt like I really let Eddie down. I mean, here I was, acting like some dumb kid, again.

I gotta tell you, I was ashamed.

"Go home, Eddie. I'll be fine."

"Sure kid. Fine. You look fuckin' fine. You looked great when you came in. You been fine for a coupla days, now."

I sat up, and I wasn't in the Infirmary, anymore, I was in my bedroom, and I had a different shirt on.

"A coupla days? What coupla days?" I asked.

"The coupla days you been out of it an' me an' Wayne have been takin' shifts lookin' after you. Just what I wanted to do with my fuckin' weekend, spend it nursemaiding my partner, who goes out to get drunk and fight instead of to the hospital when somebody sticks a knife in her."

"I'm sorry, Eddie." I said.

"Yeah, I'll bet you are. Sorry for yourself. Well, kid I ain't fuckin' sorry for you. Youse did this shit to yourself. You know who I'm sorry for? Me. I got sympathy for me that this kid, my fuckin' partner comes bustin' into my living room in the middle of the fuckin' night, bleedin' to death. You think I need this shit? I hadda sew you up so you wouldn't bleed out in my car. Which I'm gonna have to get cleaned. And lookit me! I been wearin the same clothes for three fuckin' days. I hadda get my cleaning lady to come over special and clean up my apartment. It's a good thing she does bloodstains. There's still some that won't come out. This is what I get, right? The fuckin' joke's on me, right? Well, guess what, kid? Check my face, I ain't laughin'. This is it, kid. It's grow-up time. I'm takin' off the fuckin' trainin' wheels. You pull this shit on me again, and I'm done with you. Get me?"He said.

"I get you."

"Yeah, you get me. You got me. I'm watchin' you like a fuckin' hawk, kid. There's no smokin', no drinkin', no fightin' and no fuckin' until you get better, and these guys don't know your tricks like I do. As soon as you can move you ass outa this bed, you're coming home with me, and I'll make sure you toe the fuckin' line, kid. But the first thing you're gonna do, you're gonna get a mop and a fuckin bucket and a scrub brush, and you're gonna clean up the fuckin' mess you made. It's about fuckin' time somebody made you clean up after yourself, kid. It's your goddamn blood. You deal with it." He told me.

"I don't feel good enough to do any of that shit." I said.

"Yeah. Today you don't. Tomorrow I'll have to hit Kent up for Wonder Woman's lasso so I can tie you to the fuckin' bed."

***

As it turned out, I couldn't go to Eddie's the next day or the day after that, so I guess he got his cleaning lady to come back in.

Anyway, I was up and around in another day, and over at Eddie's apartment, looking to go back to work. I felt shitty about what I did and I wanted to show him I still had it. He told me that I was nuts, and I told him I'd do what I wanted and he couldn't stop me and he told me that I could hang around the apartment and take it easy, or he could put those old people diapers on me and tie me to the bed.

He would have done it, too.

I can't say I minded being at Eddie's for awhile. I like living at Wayne Manor, I got my own suite of rooms and I like living there, but sometimes I want to get out of there, in the worst way.

It's not Bruce that bugs me, it's Dick. Sometimes, I can't stand that guy. He means well, and when he harangues me after I've had my troubles, he thinks he's doing me good, but he isn't. It drives me crazy. I mean, he's so holier than thou, and he's getting way too old to be the Boy Wonder. I mean both of us are in our twenties, here. I might as well be living down the hall from Superman. I can't stand listening to all that shit about what it really means to be a superhero and clean living and blah, blah, blah. It's not that I don't like Dick. We grew up together. He's like my brother. The problem is, sometimes, he's like my Goody-Two Shoes big brother.

Especially when he starts lecturing me about fucking. The cursing bothers him, and the smoking, and the drinking, but it's the fucking that really freaks him out.

I think Dick's a virgin. I'm serious, I really think he is, I think he's a fucking 25 year-old-virgin in 1974. I mean, he's so uptight about anything that has to do with sex.

Me, I haven't been a virgin since I was 13. I'll admit it, I like to fuck. And before I met that sick bastard I had to send straight to Hell, I wasn't too picky about who I did it with. As long as I like 'em, I mean.

Fucking is fucking.

You come, and then you go.

I mean there's me and Joe Mac, we go back to when I was 13 and all, but all that shit Dick wants to hand me, all that hearts and flowers shit, I never went for that. Joe's my friend, we grew up together, and we get it on. That's it, yunno?

I mean it always bothered Dick that I ran around with a lot of guys. The whole sexual revolution passed him right by. And it bothered him more that Joe Mac didn't really give a shit.

But the thing that bothers him the most is that me and Eddie, we're not just partners on the street, if you know what I'm saying.

I mean now, him and Joe Mac are pretty much the only guys I've been balling, you know, except for the occasional groupie. You can trust them, they worship you. But, I mean, I learned the hard way that this ain't the Summer of Love, you gotta be choosy about who you're gonna lie down with.

Not to mention, you lie down with Eddie Blake, you wake up in the morning, smiling.

But, anyway, I don't get Dick's objection. I mean, if he thinks that I shouldn't do a thing without that ring, logically speaking, why is it worse if I screw one guy than another?

I mean, his argument makes no sense. It's pretty much just, "He's your partner, you shouldn't sleep with him. Do I sleep with my partner?"

And this is the argument he puts before a scientist and an historian. It makes absolutely no fucking sense. I mean, for one thing, Dick and Bruce are both guys, and neither one of them is gay. Despite what you may have heard. For another, I don't see what the big deal is. I mean, every day, I put my life in my partner's hands, and he puts his life in mine. That's some heavy shit. I don't think a little fucking is going to affect that, either way.

I don't think a lot of fucking is going to affect that, either way.

Let me tell you, I must have fucked a hundred guys, two hundred guys, who knows, in my life, if I fucked one, and none of them were Eddie Blake. I don't know what you want to call it, but I don't care what Dick thinks about what Eddie and I do in our free time; I don't think we could stop if we tried.

I don't know what it is about Eddie. Lust, that's something I can understand. Something I can handle. Still, although most of my overpowering feelings towards my partner have to do with him being a big, mean, burly, hairy son of a bitch who looks good in guns and black leather, there's always been something else.

And I don't know what that is. I still can't figure out what made me jump out of the Owlship not three weeks after I met Eddie into a crowd of rabid, rioting gang members after him.

I know damn well what I normally would have done. I would have sat there and laughed at the Comedian for making such a stupid move, and then I would have laughed at the Nite Owl for rushing to his rescue.

But when I saw that crowd closing over Eddie, I didn't even think, I just jumped.

Then again, what the fuck made him, after being on his own since 1940, decide to take on an apprentice who was young enough to be his kid, and a woman?

Sometimes I gotta ask myself, fuck, Liv, who do you think this guy is? Gandhi? You opposed Vietnam, and he won it. You were a junior volunteer with the Kennedy campaign, and Eddie shot him. You killed a man in the most violent way possible for attempting to rape you, and he tried to give it to your best friend's mother, the hard way.

But then, they had an affair and along came Laurie.

This shit is complicated.

But not for Dick, because he acts like he doesn't have one.

He gets up on his high horse, yunno, where nothing is complicated and he calls Eddie things like a subhuman sink of depravity and iniquity.

Shit, Eddie ain't that bad.

The worst part of it is, though, when he's not making value judgements about something he's never done which considers feelings he's never experienced, Dick is usually absolutely right, and I don't want to hear what he's got to say.

Especially when I know he's absolutely right.

Anyway, I was anxious to put my latest bout of Troubles behind me, so as soon as the doctor said I could move, even though I still felt and looked like shit, I decided to get back to work.

Not my Harlequin work, I wasn't well enough for that, I mean my Liv Napier work.

I was still pretty fucked up when I went back to my job at NYU, and I just told everybody that I got mugged. I tried to tell that to the Doc in Washington, but he didn't believe me.

Naturally, Laurie tried to blame it all on Eddie. She hates the guy. I think I would too, if I was her. I mean, even if her mother would have let her know that he was her real father, I'm not sure Eddie would have been the Father of the Year.

I was at work when he came to the lab to tell me that he was gonna be staying in Washington for awahile, he had this government job to do, one of his hush-hush kind of jobs he never lets me in on, but this time, he said, if it turned out to be anything good, after he got situated he was going to bring me in on it. Then he asked me to look after his place while he was gone, and he gave me an extra key to his hotel room and made this joke to the Doc that I didn't always have to teleport right back to New York, did I?

Laurie kept looking at him like she wanted to kill him.

I don't think the Doc is overly fond of Eddie, either. Then again, the Doc being the way he is, he's not overly fond of anybody. He probably thinks I should quit working with Eddie. He's always telling me that I should never put being a superhero ahead of being a scientist, because there are plenty of superheroes in the world, but not a lot of scientists with a brain like mine.

Maybe that's why he's always telling me about what Eddie did in Nam, to discourage me from the mask game, but I honestly don't give a fuck.

I know what Eddie did in Nam. I know what Eddie did in WWII. Fuck, I even know what he did in Dallas in 1963.

People think goddamn Kennedy was so fucking innocent. And I'm not saying he wasn't a good President, but he wasn't the Second Coming. People don't just get whacked for no reason. He started the whole war in progress, and he got into all that shit in Cuba, too. He wasn't any better or worse than anybody else who had ever been president, people just got all wet over him because he was young and good-looking and girls wanted to fuck him. Then he started believing his own legend and trying to push things in a way that the rest of the political types didn't like and so they had him taken out.

Not that I agree with that. I think it was a shitty fuckin' thing to do, an' I don't think Presdient Kennedy deserved it, and I think he would have been better than Johnson and Tricky Dick, so the joke's on the government, that they whacked the wrong guy.

The funny thing is, at this point, I think Eddie half-agrees with me. But, the one time I said anything to him about it, he shrugged and told me it was politics, and that every president he ever knew other than FDR was an asshole one way or the other.

Yeah, it was politics. Like those cocksuckers in the Mob say, it was business.

So Eddie did it. He did what he had to do. I don't care who you are, like my Old Man says, everybody's expendable. It's a fucking joke, it really is, the way people go on about what's right and what's wrong and all their bullshit morality. Nobody gives a fuck about morality, really, they just want it to appear to other people that they're Joe Square, and then they go and do all kinds of horrible shit.

I know. I'm the one who has to stop them doing it.

You think if Eddie hadn't been the one to pull the trigger, they wouldn't have got somebody else to do it? You think if he pulled out the soapbox and gave them a big lecture, or went and told the press or somebody else who wasn't in on the plot that they would have had a parade for him?

Yeah, maybe in the fuckin' movies. In real life, all those politicians are in it together, and they keep the fuckin' press on a real short leash.

Lots of shit never gets into the papers.

I'll tell you want would have happened. There would have been no more Comedian, that's what. They would have made up some story about him dying nobly in some way and printed that in the papers. If you think they would have let him live after he said no, you're a real dumb prick.

Once they get you, those Federal cocksuckers, they got you, and they got Eddie when he was younger than me and they aren't gonna let him go.

Not unless it's feet first, in a box.

And I'm not getting up on my soapbox and saying how wrong it is, because that's the way it is. That's the way all governments are. At least in America we got the Constitution and we got some rights and they can't just drag you out of your house and shoot you, like they do in a lot of countries.

People are bullshitters. They act like it's some kind of wonderful fucking world, and that's because they don't have to clean up the mess that all the people who aren't so fucking wonderful make. And they all say that the government is full of fucking creeps and assholes and power-hungry cocksuckers who will do anything to keep their power and grab for more, and then they get all fucking shocked when it turns out to be true.

I'll tell you one thing. I wish some of his underlings would get it together and decide that somebody had to take Nixon out. I'd be all over that shit.

And, knowing Eddie, he'd probably be glad to be the backup man.

I mean, I used to go to demonstrations when I was in college. I know it's a radical thing to believe but I think women are just as good as men are, and why shouldn't we do what they do? And I never wanted anything to do with their fucking war, and at least when they sent in Eddie and the Doc because they got the job done and the war ended.

But me, when I saw the cops coming, I didn't stick around, I got the fuck out because I didn't want to get the shit beaten out of me or go to jail. I was smart enough to understand that kind of bullshit nobility doesn't get you anywhere. You can't do shit about anything if you're in jail, or if the fucking cops cripple your dumb ass for life.

I did what I had to do. I always have. But that's the way it is. That's the goddamn American way. You do what you have to do, and when somebody tries to step on you and your rights, you bitch as loud as you can and you do something about it. And everybody who's too fucking scared or screwed or stupid to do anything about it, whether you know it or not, you're doing it for them, too, because they stand to benefit from it.

Whether they like the way you did it, or not.

Me, I did something about it. Something better than letting the cops kick my ass and go to jail, or shoot me in the face while I stood there with a sign in my hand, like some of my friends went. I became a superhero. Sure, it's not always nice and it's not always pretty, but neither is the world, and the joke's going to be on you if you think it is.

Anyway, I just had enough one day, and I know it's crazy to backtalk your boss who's a nuclear reactor, but I did it anyway.

"Doc, I don't mean you any disrespect, after all you cut me a lot of breaks and never fired me when I was doing so much fucking up, and you're the only scientist in the world who can even begin to understand the project I'm workin' on, but I'm goddamn sick and fucking tired of people badmouthing Eddie. He just saved my life, I don't want to hear anybody badmouthing him."

Not like the Doc can look surprised, but I think he was.

"I wasn't badmouthing him. I was just telling you what happened. I honestly don't have any feelings on the subject." He said.

"Well I do. You know what I think? I think they ought to make Eddie Blake goddamn Captain America, because he's more the personification of what this country is about and always has been about than every Boy Scout who goes around mouthing meaningless pieties and talking about truth, justice and the American Way when he doesn't know shit about any of those things. Eddie is my goddamn partner and he gave me a chance to be a superhero where nobody else did, because he's never concerned himself with all that shit; he knows what a joke it is. I know what Eddie did, and I know what he does and what he will continue to do. He gets up every fucking day and he does what he has to do because that's what needs to be done and most people are too deluded and chickenshit to do it. He does what he has to do and he takes the consequences, and he never tries to weasel his way out of it. And I'm the same way, and that's why he doesn't care that my father's the Joker, or that I'm a chick, or that I'm not some perfect fucking angel. I mean, Christ, Doc, that's what it means to be a man, let alone a superhero. You gotta stand up. When nobody else will, and even if everybody hates you for it. When you know what has to be done, you gotta stand up and do it."

That was the first time I ever saw the Doc smile.

Really smile, like a regular person.

"I'm not sure how you learned that at the Comedian's knee, Liv, but you're learning. That's very good." He said.

It made me realise that it's time for me to stand up.

I let everybody down. They all trusted me, and they thought I was past all my Troubles and well and truly on the wagon and then I fucked it all up, acting like a stupid, spoiled cunt and I got no excuse for it.

You can't be a superhero and a spoiled cunt, the two just don't go together. So I gotta quit having my Troubles, altogether, or just quit and decide to be a fucking mook like everybody else and say "Oh, isn't it a shame, help, somebody save me, oh not that way, how terrible."

What a fuckin' joke.

That made me start to think about what the Old Man said about getting myself an arch-nemesis, and how, if I really gave him a reason to hate my guts, this Green Jackal asshole could be just the one.

Or maybe I had given him something to aspire to.

I mean, leopards don't change their spots. The guy was gonna go out there and make some fuckin' trouble, one way or the other, and if I started him, thinking with my pussy and trying to get him to fuck me, then I was gonna have to be the one to stop him.

I started counting down the days until he would be out on bail.

Whatever he was planning up there in Arkham, he wasn't going to get away with it.

The joke's on him.

JUSTICE LEAGUE FILE #ZX5002- Napier, Trivelino J.- "The Harlequin"

Trivelino J. "Liv" Napier was born on April 1, 1949. The identity and whereabouts of her mother are unknown both to us and to Miss Napier, but her father is Jack Napier, the Joker.

His reasons for wanting to sire a child are also unknown, but the psychopathic and arguably occasionally psychotic Joker proved to be, for reasons also unknown, a serviceable father. He raised the child himself, employing the occasional private tutor, but otherwise taking full responsibility for his daughter's care and education. She was raised in the atmosphere of the full benefits of Napier's ill-gotten gains, and, was, by all accounts "Daddy's Little Girl"

Although possibly even a loving father, the moral education and worldview that Napier impressed upon his child were skewed and maladaptive to say the least. However advantageous it may have been to her in the long run, in the short run Miss Napier suffered a dual trauma in 1956, when the Joker was sent for a long stretch in Arkham Asylum.

He had made provisions for his daughter to be taken to an associate of his, Kevin McClatchey, who had been given a large sum of money to send the child to an exclusive boarding school in London. The associate, however, absconded with the money.

Napier believed that McClatchey had either abandoned his child and left her to her fate or outright murdered her, and he suffered a long, slow, painful death at the hands of the Riddler and the Penguin. Miss Napier, however, had been found in the apartment of her father's associate by John "Mac" McClatchey, the brother of the deceased.

After she informed him that his brother had been given money and instructions to look after her while her father was in prison, McClatchey took the child into his own home, in East New York, Brooklyn.

Liv Napier attended school and was immediately jumped forward two grades. She was a bright, happy, well-adjusted child, albeit a mischievous tomboy. She was a bit of a misfit with the other children but that, by all reports, did not seen to disturb her, and she associated mainly with the other McClatchey children and some of their friends.

This unremarkable phase in Harlequin's life ended abruptly at the corner of Fulton and Rockaway in East New York in May of 1960.

She was sitting in a parked car with her foster-father when he was approached by a gun-toting Mafia associate, who had long been pressing the elder McClatchey to pay off one of his dead brother's debts.

The Mafioso fired one shot into the vehicle before his fire was retuned by 11 year old Liv Napier. The Joker had taught her about firearms and shooting at an early age, and gave her a snub-nosed .45 calibre revolver for her sixth birthday, telling her to carry it at all times and never let anyone see the gun, unless she was going to use it on him.

The Harlequin had taken her father's words to heart. She shot the Mafioso four times. All four slugs penetrated the door of the vehicle and entered the assassin's body, striking him twice in the chest, once in the stomach, and once right between the eyes. Even as the mafioso lay dying, Miss Napier had crawled onto wounded John McClatchey's lap, and pulled the car away from the curb.

She rushed her foster-father to Brooklyn General, where doctors were able to save his life.

The story was published in several New York newspapers, and it came to the Joker's attention that his child still lived. Oddly enough, he wrote a personal letter to Bruce Wayne, of all people, asking him to adopt the child and provider her with a proper upbringing, with the caveat that if the courts allowed, that he could still see his daughter.

Mr. Wayne, who admits he had always felt a degree of guilt that the joker's child was murdered after he, in his guise as the Batman, had Napier taken into custody, agreed. Not wishing to completely uproot the child, he made arrangements for her to continue to go to the same school, from which system she matriculated at the age of fifteen.

Ms. Napier has an IQ of 190, and graduated New York University with a double major in Quantum Physics and History at the age of nineteen, in 1968. She took a position as a student assistant and became a part-time graduate student, and also worked as a graduate assistant to Dr, Manhattan in his Washington DC laboratory, commuting from New York by teleportation.

It was towards the end of her years at King's College and the intervening years between 1968 and 1971, in which the Harlequin began to appear, sporadically as a masked hero, but also when, unfortunately, the trauma of her birth and upbringing began to show itself in a range of decidedly un-heroic behaviours. These included rampant and voracious promiscuity, developing a serious drinking problem, associating with motorcycle gangs, becoming involved in innumerable bar brawls, street fights and other violent encounters, as well as racking up an impressive list of serious traffic violations, vehicle accidents, and totalled cars.

This reckless behaviour spilled over into her professional activities; her methods, although brave, were often brutal, sloppy, and suicidal in scope.

In three years, the Harlequin was shot four times, two in the line of duty, stabbed seven times, and in two separate serious vehicle accidents, broke five bones, amid numerous other injuries.

This cycle culminated in another act of violent heroism, when, after being unsuccessfully attacked by him, the Harlequin killed a rapist and sex murderer who had chosen her to be his fourth victim. Even for a despicable murderer, his death was extremely brutal, violent, and bloody. The Harlequin apparently beat him to death and emasculated him with her bare hands , in the words of her future partner "she smeared the S.O.B. all over the room."

It was at this time that the Batman and we at the League realised that the Harlequin was at a crisis point. She was becoming unable to function as either Liv Napier or the Harlequin, and Batman made the difficult suggestion, which we accepted, to apprentice the Harlequin to a hero outside the League for completion of her training.

Although he is popular with the public, and has consistently proved himself a competent "hero", we at the League have always felt that the Comedian, AKA Edward Blake, is not what our standards would consider as such, considering some of his methods, and his extremely unsavoury personal life.

The strategy worked, though. After being apprenticed to the Comedian in 1971, the Harlequin was able to resolve her personal and professional problems. Her methods remain far less draconian than those of Blake, and although she is technically a member of the League in good standing, her loyalties lie more with the Comedian than with us.

Late in 1972, Blake began referring to the Harlequin as his "partner" and it is as such that she is viewed in the public eye.

Some respected members believe that the League should take action to dissolve this partnership. We cannot do so on the grounds of Blake's reputation, as he is not a member of the League.

Most vocal on their objections to the Comedian/Harlequin partnership are Clark Kent, AKA Superman and Dick Grayson, AKA, Robin, the Boy Wonder. They cite as grounds that the sexual relationship between Blake and Napier, which commenced when he was 47 and she was 22 is inappropriate. Considering, however, that the relationship is consensual and both were adults at the time it was commenced, the League as a whole have declined to attempt to end the partnership on these grounds.

This is not only because we lack the authority, but because we believe that the dissolution of that partnership would be disadvantageous to both parties.

As of 1974, the Harlequin holds a Master's degree in History and one in Quantum Physics. She is teaching a class at NYU in History and still works in Dr. Manhattan's lab. She is rumoured to be working on a secret project with the doctor's assistance, so secret that even the league doesn't know about it, that may have an impact on the superhero community as great as the impact splitting the atom has had on the world.

Again, these are unconfirmed rumours.

As of the present day, the Harlequin has had no chief antagonists until the emergence of the Green Jackal, a new super villain.

It remains to be seen what his true threat is, and how the Harlequin will rise to meet it, however, the League has full faith in her ability to stand against this new foe of justice, as well as in her ability to maintain her own integrity despite her partner's methods and background.

Well, well, well, is this a match made in Hell? Just how on Earth would this be allowed to happen, and what would make Bruce Wayne deliver his ward into the hands of the Comedian? And just what made him accept the delivery? Mutual love of the old ultraviolence? A whim? Wild, unnatural lust? And just how red do the streets run with blood when this pair of jokers play out their hand? Tune into the next exciting episode to find out!

Reviews would be greatly appreciated.


	2. Tainted Love

**II: Tainted Love**

**New York City, 1971**

**I. Eddie**

Eddie Blake didn't work well with others.

He'd been on his own since the Minutemen kicked him out in 1940, and he'd laughed off that hokey Crimebusters gig that the Doc and that queer Metropolis and that fuckin' Ozzy kid who thought he was so fuckin' great, and Mr. Mom and Apple Pie Night Owl II had cooked up back in sixty something, and he was glad the Justice League didn't want him, because he wouldn't have joined it even if they paid him in pussy and Cuban cigars.

Not to mention that his track record with women was unspeakably lousy.

Sure, he never had any trouble finding them, in the costume or out of it. After all, women had been tacking his picture to their bedroom walls and drooling over it since about 1942, but even the most slavering groupie had a tendency to come to think he was an incredible prick after a little while.

They came and then they went, sooner or later, and The Comedian didn't really care, as long as he came, too.

Considering that he had fucked things up royally with the only broad he ever really gave a shit about, it didn't matter to him much.

So he had a real good laugh when Bruce Wayne came to him right after he got back from 'Nam and asked him if he'd take some young mask broad who called herself the Harlequin on as a kind of apprentice.

He'd heard of her.

Everybody had heard of her, the kid was fucking crazy.

Her methods were pretty elementary. She owned several fast cars and a whole lotta guns, and she ran around town in a Halloween mask and a jester's hat and a beat-down second-hand boiler suit and jump boots painted up like a jester's uniform knocking the shit out of people, destroying things, occasionally blowing shit up, and generally raising Hell.

He was a bit intrigued when Bruce explained that he had been trying to raise her to be something less of a crazy, fractured psycho, because she was Jack Napier's kid, and spent her formative years with Dear Old Dad.

That made sense to Eddie. He and Jack had grown up in the same neighbourhood. Before he was a big time gangster and then the Joker, he was a small-time hood.

Crazy Jack, they called him.

Not a big surprise that Crazy Jack's kid was fucking nuts.

Bruce gave him the whole sob story, about how when she wasn't raising hell for the sake of the greater good, she was out raising hell for her its own sake. Driving too fast, drinking too much, running around with men, totalling cars and getting stabbed and beaten and broken up and shot full of holes and laughing it all off like it was nothing.

He could see why Wayne thought that he could have taken the kid under his wing and showed her the ropes, but the Comedian wasn't interested in working with anybody as a team, let alone some crazy broad who seemed hell-bent on getting to the cemetery as fast as she could and taking as many scumbags with her as she could.

Eddie didn't give the matter any more thought until he was at Arkham one Friday night, making a special trip in his civvies to taunt Moloch.

Sometimes, it's the little things in life that really make your day.

In the bright, fluorescent waiting room with its green mouldy cheese coloured walls there was a young woman, already sitting there, waiting.

She was the only other person in the room, and Eddie wasn't much for psychology magazines. The Comedian gave her the once-over, and made sure the girl knew he was doing it.

She sure wasn't the glamorous type. The kid had on a pair of dungarees with blood, motor oil, or both on them, and jump boots and a tee shirt, but there was something about her he couldn't put his finger on that made him keep looking.

Maybe it was the plain outline of a gun in the pocket of her coat.

Very interesting broad.

She sat there, chain-smoking, holding her cigarette in a hand with two bashed fingers taped together, jiggling her leg, impatiently. She had long red hair, really long, it hung down the seat behind her all the way to her ass, and green eyes that were kind of yellow in the bright light.

Eddie couldn't figure out if she was a dyke or not, you couldn't tell with some of these young broads, but since he'd always been partial to redheads, and he didn't have any plans for the night, it was worth a shot.

She wasn't too tall, if she stood up she would have been about five-three or four, but she was built like a brick shithouse, and Eddie found himself wondering if the hooters distorting Alfred E. Neuman's face on her "What, me worry?" tee shirt were real.

The other thing about her was that she had very fair skin, and although she wasn't wearing lipstick her lips were very, very red.

She had a book on her knee, which she kept jiggling, and when she dropped it and he saw the cover, Eddie saw it was some cheap fuckbook, as it had a drawing on the back cover of some bareass guy standing next to a bed with some chick wearing next to nothing on it.

He chuckled to himself.

Probably not a dyke.

So far, so good.

A disembodied voice came over the intercom on the wall.

"Ms. Napier. Ms. Napier? This is a no smoking facility."

Well, that made sense.

So, this was Jack's little girl.

Jesus H. Christ.

He could see the resemblance in the red hair like Jack used to have, and the same wide, sly mouth, but her lips were bigger and her mother must have been a decent-looking broad, because you could tell she was pretty, even though she had a shiner around one eye and she was dressed like a 'Nam vet with shell shock.

The voice on the intercom asked her to put out her cigarette, again.

Casually, without looking up from the book, she reached into the dirty-looking pocket of the battered army surplus coat on the back of her chair, and drew a lovingly maintained nickel-plated, pearl-handled .45 automatic, which she casually used to blow the speaker to smithereens.

Eddie laughed.

An orderly soon came into the waiting room and attempted to remove the petite young lady from the premises.

A very big orderly.

She picked him up, by his neck and his nuts, hoisted him over her head, shook him a little for emphasis and then tossed him through what turned out to be a one way mirror.

A bunch of shrinks in white coats cowered on the other side.

"Look, you fucks, I'm not just some dumb cunt who has fuck-all to do all day long! I got shit to do today! Places to go! Scum to kill! Men to fuck! Drinks to have! Now you let me in to see my father, because if you don't, I'm going to quit being fucking cute and funny and ladylike and make some real fucking trouble in this shithole!"

The kid capped off her announcement with a burst of wild laughter.

She went in and when she came out, Eddie just had to introduce himself.

This kid had potential, and she seemed like, if nothing else, she'd be a lot of laughs.

"Hi. I'm Eddie Blake. Me and your old man grew up in the same neighbourhood, and, a while back, I had a little talk with your stepfather, Mr. Wayne. He thinks you should come and work with me, so I can show youse the ins and outs of this business. Now I'm not sayin' I will, and I'm not sayin' I won't, but are ya innarested, kid?" he said.

She took the fuckbook out of her coat pocket.

He saw it clearly for the first time, and there was a great big smiley face on the cover, wuth a moustache and a cigar in its mouth.

The title was "The Comedian's Caper."

"According to this book, Mr. Blake, you're the kind of two-tone son of a bitch who can kill ten unarmed men before breakfast just for looking at you the wrong way, single-handedly overthrow a small South American country by lunchtime and fuck six or seven girls into screaming pools of molten satisfaction in time to be home to eat rusty scrap metal for dinner, and piss a tank of gasoline before you go to bed. Well?"

Eddie laughed, and lit a fresh cigar.

"Which part are you most interested in, kid?"

"The part where I get my rocks off. One way or the other. So, how'd you get here? I didn't see any nice cars in the lot."

"Cab."

"You wanna ride back to the city? I mean, it's Friday night. Might as well have a little fun, right."

Again, Eddie was intrigued.

Just what was Jack Napier's crazy mask kid's idea of fun on a Friday night?

It wasn't like he was afraid of the broad, or anything.

"Why not?"

***

Ten minutes later, the Comedian found himself in a souped-up silver '67 Corvette Stingray, flying down the interstate at about a hundred, with John Lee Hooker singing "I'm Bad Like Jesse James" on the radio as Liv Napier swigged Jack Daniels straight from the bottle.

"Have a drink." She encouraged him, as she lit a cigarette while driving with one hand.

"Don't mind if I do."

The Comedian took a long pull on the bottle, and put it back in the glove compartment.

"You got good taste in music for a kid your age."

"I love the blues, man. That and old time rock and roll. I mean I like some of the new groups, yunno, I like the Who and the Stones, but I can't stand that pop shit and that bubblegum psychedelic lets smoke some dope and get beat up by the cops music. Fuck that shit. I smoked some of that shit in college and it wasn't worth it. The only dope that's worth it is smack. Man, that shit made me feel great. I had some of that shit, and a fifth, and I felt like I was the king of the world. This motherfucker shot me two, three times, and I didn't even feel it. Never did it again, though. Liked it too much. Besides, that shit's for suckers, yunno. I mean, fuck it. I don't wanna be another shell shocked junkie, yunno?"

"Who told you that you was shell shocked?" The Comedian asked.

"This fuckin' doctor. I told him I never been to war, but yunno it's a war out on the street and I guess I've seen a lot and, fuck him, he wanted me to take all this fuckin' medicine and I told him to fuck himself. I'll get over it. Fuck it. Aw shit, yuh see that?"

Eddie looked in the rearview mirror.

He saw cop lights in the distance.

Goddamn cops.

The Comedian knew that he and the cops were supposed to be on the same side, but so many of them were fat, lazy pricks who took payola and looked the other way and had it in for masks that he couldn't muster up a whole lot of goodwill towards them, in general.

Especially not some highway patrol cocksucker trying to break his balls while he was trying to have a good time on a Friday night.

"Fuckin' cops. You gonna stop?"

"The fuck I am! Watch me smoke those pig bastards. Putcher fuckin' seat belt on and hold onto yer ass!" she said.

With a maniacal gleam in her eye, the Harlequin shifted gears and put her foot right in the tank.

The tires squealed and the Stingray roared forward, making a sound like an angry panther. The needle on the speedometer disappeared and so did the policeman's lights.

"Whooooooo-hoooooo! Fuck you, ya fuckin' pig cocksuckers! Listen to that fuckin' engine purr, willya? I worked on this baby, myself. I got it tuned like a fuckin' grand piano. Dual carbs. Racin tyres. Bored out the engine. I can do more'n 200. Fuckin' pig bastards will never catch me. Where's my Chuck Berry tape? There it is."

John Lee Hooker was temporarily replaced by Chuck Berry singing "You Can't Catch Me."

"Pass the bottle, huh?" she said.

Eddie couldn't tell if she was trying him, or if she was always this nuts, or a little of both.

He opened the glove compartment.

"Here you go, kid." He said, and calmly pushed in the cigarette lighter so that he could fire up another cigar.

The kid took two long slugs from the bottle and handed it back to him.

Her eyes were wide and they had a mad light in them as she hooted and laughed.

She was fucking excited, this shit was really turning her on.

Literally.

Eddie got the idea that if he put his hand down the front of her pants she'd be wet.

Soaked.

That was an idea.

She didn't look like she'd mind it.

But this little broad was crazy, she was a stone-cold killer, she killed men with her bare hands, probably with just a little different look of wild-eyed excitement on her face.

She might kill me.

She's Jack's kid, after all.

Two in the head and shove me out onto the side of the road.

No, I never met the guy. Shame about the way he went. National hero. Oh well, how about another drink?

Hell of a broad, though.

He lit his cigar.

"You sure know how to have a good time, kid." He chuckled.

***

Having killed the bottle on the way into the city, the Harlequin and the Comedian decided to hit a bar in Bensonhurst that the Harlequin often went to, and once inside, she proceeded to begin putting away Guinness like she hadn't just drunk a quarter of a bottle of whiskey.

The Comedian was impressed. Sure, she was Irish, but you didn't often meet a woman, even a red-haired Irish girl, who could put it away like that.

"Kid, you drink like my old man." Eddie joked.

He was putting it away right along with her, of course.

"Was he a cop or a hood? I already know he wasn't a priest." Liv asked.

"My old man? Like my Ma always used to say, the old man was a lousy, two-bit, piece of shit shanty Irish hoodlum. Her father was a cop." The Comedian replied.

"And you and me are masks. Might as well be cops. Sittin' here getting' drunk off our asses. It's all true what they say about us, I guess. Still, if anybody calls me a Mick, I'll kill 'em."

"Kid, are you really lookin' for a partner?"

"Awwww, shit, Eddie, you an' me both know that you ain't. 'Scuse my language. I should talk better for a quantum physicist, but I don't like to put on airs, yunno? I mean, if you wanted a partner, you've had, what, thirty fuckin' years to get one? Shit, I don't need anybody. I been alone my whole fuckin' life. I mean, I got a friend or two, masks or the guy I was a kid with, and yunno, there's Bruce and I can't forget Dick, my Goody Two-Shoes older brother who would shit his pants if he could see me now, but, shit, I know I'm alone. They like me, but they all look at me like I'm fuckin' nuts. Maybe I am fuckin' nuts. I don't care. I don't need a fuckin' partner. I don't need anybody."

The kid looked morosely into her glass for a minute, then she got up, went over to the jukebox, saying hello to some Italian guys in coveralls on the way over, and put on Albert King singing "The Hunter."

Halfway through the song, this greasy Mafioso wannabe who looked like he was half Irish and half Italian went over and started trying to fuck with the jukebox.

"Hey you! Chief! Leave that the fuck alone. You can put your nickel in when my song's done."

"Fuck you, you fuckin' whore. I'll do what I want!" he said.

Eddie watched three made Gambino wiseguys get up quietly, throw some money on their table, and leave.

The bartender began putting the bottles of booze under the table, and half the bar turned around and looked at the asshole like he was crazy.

"What did you say to me, you little prick? Get your ass over here and say it to my face, you think you're so fuckin' tough."

The guy came over and so did about four of his friends.

Liv gave Eddie that great big Crazy Jack grin.

"Dig this." She said.

She caught the guy's first punch, literally, and twisted his arm around until the bone snapped through the skin.

He went down like the Titanic, and as the second guy tried to flee, the kid kicked him right in the kidneys so hard that he'd probably be pissing blood for a week.

The third asshole, the one who had started it, had a piece of a broken bottle in his hands.

The kid took the bottle, throwing one army-jacketed arm up in front of her face to absorb the blow, and let him have it with her other hand, pulping his nose.

Meanwhile, the second guy had hauled the first guy to his feet and they both got the fuck out, leaving the third guy, who didn't know when he was beaten to take another punch at the kid, and receive the full force of her fury.

He punched her square in the face and she laughed at him, picked him up the way and had picked up the orderly, and tossed him over the pool table into the cue rack.

Then Liv returned to her chair, unscathed but for a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth.

"Fuckin' amateurs. Hey, Vito? How about another Guinness down here?"

Then asshole came back, with a pool cue in his hand, getting ready to hit the Harlequin while she wasn't looking.

The Comedian didn't like that kind of shit.

Eddie punched the asshole in the stomach, caught the pool cue as it fell, snapped it in half, and hit the little prick in the face with the thickest part.

Then, he held the pieces of the pool cue on either side of the asshole's neck in an "X" pattern, and squeezed.

"What are you, some kinda fuckin' sore loser? Ya little prick! Guys like you don't deserve to live."

He squeezed harder, increasing the pressure, and the asshole started to gasp, and claw at the halves of the broken pool cue.

"Get your faggot ass the fuck outa here and don't come back. If I hear you had your face in her again, I'll kill you."

The Comedian moved the sticks away, and the asshole dropped to the ground.

He didn't move.

"Hey, didn't the man tell you to get the fuck out? C'mere, you prick!"

The Harlequin picked him up and threw him out the door.

"You shoulda seen that comin' kid."

"I woulda, if I wasn't so drunk."

"Youse shouldn't get that drunk if you ain't at home. Just cos you ain't got the mask on, it doesn't mean you're not a mask."

The kid didn't say anything smart, she nodded like she would remember it.

The Comedian paid for their drinks.

"Let's go, kid. I gotta get home, sometime, tonight, before either of us kills somebody."

***

The shape the kid was in, Eddie could hardly believe that she could drive, but she drove alright, following his directions.

"Hey, I'm sorry I can't come in. Shit, I'm really sorry. You do a hell of a lot for a pair of pants, yunno? But I'm all fucked up. If anybody got on top of me the way I'm hurtin', I'd fuckin' die. I can't take it. And I was thinking, yunno, maybe we could get in the back of the car, my turn, your turn, but now that fuckin' asshole punches me in the face and my fuckin' jaw hurts too. What a weekend. Friday night and I'm too fucked up and drunk to even give a guy a blow job. An' I wouldn't ask you to do somethin' for me if I couldn't do somethin' for you. And lookit this. My hand's all busted up, I can't even jack off. I am depressed."

The kid laughed, wildly as the Comedian got out of the car.

Eddie just looked at her.

Crazy. She was fucking crazy. Even these slavering groupie dames who ripped open their shirts and begged him to sign their tits and crawled all over him, even they didn't have a mouth on them like that.

"You always talk to men like that, kid?" Eddie asked.

The kid smiled a drunken, crooked leer at him, full of malice and lust.

"Not unless I mean it. I just wantcha to know I mean it. Jesus, my jaw hurts. Gonna hafta put some ice on it. Got hit in the same spot last week. See, I had a nice, quiet night tonight, cos I'm so fucked up. Last week, shit, did I get hurt! I had this fuckin' accident in my other car. I gotta do some body work on it, rebuild the engine, I don't think it's totalled, I can save it. Then, a coupla days later I was workin', I got into it with a buncha guys tryin' to rob this old lady, and one of them had brass knuckles on, an' one had a knife, and, look, see?"

The kid lifted up her shirt a little and the Comedian could see a mass of bruises of varying degrees of black, blue, yellow and green on her ribs along her one side.

It was pretty fucking bad, seeing a young kid like that, a woman, fucked up the way the kid was, even to the Comedian.

"Jesus, kid!"

"Awwww, I hurt all over. Fuckin' bullshit, man. I shoulda stayed home and worked on the car, but I gotta go see the Old Man, yunno? They had him in that fuckin' straitjacket again. Motherfuckers. That fuckin' ape bastard orderly is lucky I didn't shoot him right in the fuckin' head. I wanted to. They treat the Old Man like he ain't even human. Them and their fuckin' high moral fiber. My ass. What a fuckin' joke. It's all a fuckin' joke. But what am I tellin' you, for, right? I gotta go home. Eat some Excedrin. Go to bed."

"Yeah kid, you better. And take it easy for awhile. Quiet night, my ass! Whaddya wanna do, kill yourself?" The Comedian asked.

"Me? Kill myself? Shit, if I'm still alive after all the shit I've done since I was sixteen and I started this shit, I'm not sure I can. I hadda good time, tonight, Eddie. I'll be feelin' better soon enough. If you're lookin' for some action, yunno where to find me."

"Yeah. Sure. Go home, kid. Go to bed."

"Look, Eddie, you know where to find me, right? No, ya don't. Look for me at this bar in Bensonhurst, Trivelino Mac's. Come over any time. I'll be upstairs in the first room on the left. If I'm passed out just throw some water on my ass. If that don't work, start without me. You get me hot enough, I'll wake up. What can I say? Ya gotta get it while ya can, right? Right."

The kid peeled out in a blaze of glory, John Lee Hooker playing out the open windows.

The Comedian watched the car disappear and lit up.

Some kind of offer.

Too bad the kid is already fucked.

"Jesus Christ." He said, chuckling sadly to himself.

***

The Comedian was in his living room, watching the tube a few nights later when the phone rang.

"Yeah, hello?"

"Hiya, Eddie."

"Sal? But this morning I was a no-good, stinking, vicious Mick cocksucker who was going straight to hell."

"So? Ya still are tonight. Did Bruce talk to you about Liv Napier, yet?"

"She's our kid's friend, right? I barely survived a nice, quiet night with her. Shell shock my ass, that kid is fuckin' nuts! I'll tellya how fuckin' nuts I think she is. She told me to look her up at this bar and I could fuck her any time I wanted, and I haven't gone near the place. What the fuck is wrong with that kid?"

"You haven't gone near the place? What happened? Didja get the clap?"

"Funny, Sal. No, I wanna live. I gotta lot of broads chasin' me, I don't need to get mixed up with the crazy one who's a stone cold killer. And a fuckin' drunk. With a broad like that, she might just shoot me in the head the minute I come through the fuckin' door because she's too drunk to remember what the fuck she said or know what the fuck she's doin'. One minute I'll be comin', the next minute I'll be goin'."

"It's not funny, Eddie. That girl is going to die. I know you don't give a fuck. Just lemme finish. She wasn't like this when she was younger. She was a sweet little girl. Pretty. Smart. Funny. Really smart. I mean she graduated college at 19 and she works with the Doc and teaches classes at NYU. I mean, she always liked cars, and men, and blues and booze, and guns, but yunno, she's a mask. Cars and guns go with the territory. I mean, she was always a little wild, but not like this. But who can blame the poor kid? I mean, everybody told her all her life that her father's crazy and it's no use because she's crazy like her father, crazy and bad and she'll come to a bad end. Liv's no crazier than you or me, Eddie. But she doesn't know that."

"So? What does that have to do with me?"

"Awww, fuck, do ya have to be a fuckin' prick all the time, every day of your life, Eddie? Nobody said you had to marry the girl. Or make her your goddamn partner. She needs somebody to show her the ropes. Somebody she'd listen to. And have a little respect for. Yunno?"

"Whaddya expect me to do? Read her the riot act and lay some cock to her? You think that'll get the kid to fly on an even keel? Why me? Yeah, I know. The kid, she's a mean, low-down, two-tone drunken Mick motherfucker who thinks that the whole world's a joke and the joke's on everybody else. Kill you as soon as look at you, break your jaw and make you pick up your teeth and laugh at you while you're doing it. Hey, that sounds familiar. Let's get Eddie to train her. They're like two peas in a pod. Thanks a fuckin' lot, Sal."

"Hey, Eddie, you said it, I didn't. Look, Liv's a good kid. She could be a good mask. She needs a little help. She's from your old neighbourhood. An old friend's kid. Your kid's old friend. Would it kill you to do something, oh, I dunno, heroic, for once, without Tricky Dick tellin' ya?"

"Fuck you! I'm my own man! I made that cocksucker, he didn't make me!"

"Oh yeah, Eddie? Prove it, ya fuckin' Mick cocksucker! Why dontcha at least be a man and go over an' fuck her. Unless you're afraid she's too much for ya. You're gettin' old, Eddie. They shoulda asked a younger asshole!"

Sal hung up on him.

Again.

The Comedian slammed down his phone.

What fucking business was it of his?

What the fuck made everybody think he gave a shit?

***

Time rolled past and the Comedian's phone did not ring.

After his time in 'Nam, so much inaction made him antsy.

He started thinking about the kid.

Thinking less and less about the possibility of her murdering him on a whim, and more and more of that lazy look of furious lust in her eyes when she asked him to come around and see her.

He played it like he was going to go along with everybody's plans, like he was checking into the kid, and finding out if everybody was just giving him a sob story.

The Doc confirmed that Liv Napier worked with him, not for him. He agreed that she was a brilliant scientist, and that when she was sober, she was pretty much a good kid, but a little crazy. The problem was that she was rarely sober, and sometimes she got drunk as a bum who lived under a bridge.

Eddie laughed that one off, and the Doc directed him to the same bar in Bensonhurst, Trivelino Mac's.

The Comedian went there in his civvies; a pair of work pants, an A-line military undershirt, and his old bomber jacket.

This place wasn't a joint, it was a pretty nice place, a real neighbourhood kind of bar. The bartender was one of those bull-necked, barrel-chested, carroty-haired county Cork sort of guys who looked like he didn't take any shit, and wouldn't want any loudmouth rummies stinking up the place, and chasing off his customers by beating the shit out of people and getting blood and puke all over the floor.

But, sure enough, at one end of the bar, there was the kid, and she was pathetically fucking drunk.

She looked dirtier and more beaten up than the last time he saw her, like somebody who was at the end of a week-long bender. She was so drunk she was barely sitting on the barstool, and her head was bent over, and resting against a half-killed bottle of Jack Daniels that she had her arms folded around.

If you stood close enough to her, you could hear that she was occasionally tunelessly humming to herself.

For the first time since he didn't know when, Eddie was actually shocked.

He'd seen plenty of pathetic fucking stew bum drunks in his life, man and woman, but they were all old and broken down, or at least middle-aged and broken down.

He never saw one who was just a kid.

What the fuck was going on with this girl?

He decided to ask the bartender.

"Hey, what happened to her? She told me to come by and meet her here, but the kid don't look like she's going anywhere. What's the story? She one of those nurses who saw too much in 'Nam?" Eddie asked the bartender.

The kid's head abruptly dropped onto the bar and the bottle tipped over.

The bartender caught the bottle before it spilled and put it behind the bar.

"She ain't. Don't worry about it, buddy. Kid's my problem. I'm her uncle."

"Hey, no offence, pal. It's just that some of the people she works with, they tell me she's s good kid, she's a smart kid, but she's in trouble. Needs somebody to straighten her out, and they think I'm the one to do it."

The bartended looked him over, dubiously.

"Yeah, straighten her out. Look, fella, you and I both know what you came here for, and all youse gotta do is take one look at the kid and you can see she ain't capable of it. She's dead drunk. She's a drunk. And she's young enough to be your daughter. Whatever she told you, just beat it. She doesn't know what she's sayin' or who she's sayin it too half the time. Cantcha see she ain't well, for Chrissakes?"

Anybody could see that. The kid was dead to the world, a bomb wouldn't have shifted her off that barstool, and a look at her face showed Eddie a new shiner on the other eye in place of the old, and now her nose was taped up instead of her fingers.

"I'm not here on a fuckin' date. This is legitimate. Ask the big blue guy. Talk to Mr. Wayne."

"Yeah, fella? I heard about a guy that might come by to talk to my Liv. What's your name?"

"Eddie."

"Oh yeah. I'm John. Don't tell you much, do it?"

"Eddie Blake."

The bartender's face softened a little.

"So they're gonna send one roughneck to straighten another one out, are they? Saw too much. That kid saw too much by the time she was twelve. You sound like you're from around here, I don't have to tellya you don't gotta go to 'Nam to find a jungle. I mean, I know it looks bad on me, lettin' the kid do this in my place, but, what am I gonna do? Have her go someplace else? At least when she's here, I can watch her. I don't know, buddy. I used to think it was just a thing, she's young, she's a little wild, she's too smart for her own good, she works a dangerous job and she likes to blow off a little steam, but this, this shit's not normal. I worry she's gonna end up some dope friend, livin' under a bridge."

"Is the kid a junkie?"

"She says she only did it once, but I don't believe her. She don't do it now, though, and I never seen a mark on her. But the booze can ruin her just the same. If she falls all the way down, we'll take her in again. Look after her. Give her a nice place to die."

The bartender got a hitch in his voice.

"She was the sweetest little girl. Real cute. Real smart. We was so proud of her, doin' all the things she did, so young. I don't know how she came to this. Look, buddy, I don't know who you are, but if you really think you can do somethin' for my Liv, if you gotta ounce of mercy left in ya, please, do it."

Eddie looked down the bar.

Sure, he had an ounce of mercy left in him.

He wasn't a monster, for Christ's sake.

He felt sorry for the kid, and her carroty-haired tough-guy uncle, almost moved to tears by the sight of her.

It wouldn't hurt to give her a chance, see what she could do in action when she wasn't fucking annihilated.

"I'll think about it. Tell the kid that Eddie stopped by. When she comes to, tell her to sober up by Monday night, the Boy Scout's got some work comin' our way. She'll know what I mean."

***

The Boy Scout had been all over him to help break up an ongoing riot in gang territory with him and his nutty buddy, the Inkblot.

Eddie wasn't interested, but there wasn't shit going on, otherwise, and it would give him the opportunity to see what the kid could do sober and on the job.

For somebody who was Bruce Wayne's ward it was a pretty shitty costume, just a mask and a jester's hat and a belt with a holster for a gun and a hunting knife over a mechanic's boiler suit painted up to look like a jester outfit, the legs tucked into those ancient black WWII-issue jump boots.

Just like everything else the kid owned, it was about as feminine as Dick Nixon in drag.

She had her hair tied up in a long red braid that went down the middle of her back.

Bad idea. Somebody could just grab it.

But that wasn't his problem.

At least she was a hell of a lot more sober than she had been the last time he saw her, and her face was all healed up.

"You clean up pretty good, kid. You ready for this shit?" he asked her.

"Fuck yeah! Some motherfucker's gonna get his head kicked in tonight, and it ain't gonna be me!" the kid enthused.

"Well, at least ya do something ya love for a livin'." The Comedian quipped.

"It was either this or bein' a porno queen. But since I don't eat pussy or take it up the ass, this will do." The Harlequin replied.

For a minute, the Comedian just looked at the kid and blinked.

"Yunno, kid, I think that's the filthiest thing I ever heard a woman say." He told her.

"Twenty bucks. You need a towel?"

She grinned at him, and then they both began to laugh in earnest.

***

"Please disperse. The riot police will be here, shortly. Please disperse."

The Comedian gave the Night Owl a look of disbelief as he addressed the crowd of violent gang members rioting in the burning street.

"What the fuck is the matter with you? Do something! Shoot 'em!"

"I can't just kill them all!"

"No? Then I'll do it! Outta my way, Inkblot."

"The sight's a little off on the left, Comedian." Rorschach told him

"Oh yeah? Thanks. You're a lot smarter than your partner is. Okay you sonsabitches! Take this."

The Nite Owl put his ship on auto-plot, got up and stood between The Comedian and the gatling gun.

"Don't touch that gun, goddamnit! Why do you always have to resort to brute force? Why can't you ever listen to anybody's plans for-"

"Plans? Do you think this fuckin' scum is gonna listen to your plans? Whaddya wanna do, have a tea party an' bring in a buncha fuckin social workers? Awww, fuck it. Fuck it! Fuck you, Boy Scout! Why don'tcha just hang up your suit and park this thing and you and that other faggot Boy Scout Hollis Mason can drink beer and suck each other's dicks! Go fuck yourself, I got work to do!"

The Comedian was mad.

He opened the hatch, and got out his guns.

The Nite Owl was not fond of Eddie Blake, and he'd had just about enough of his specious insults and the way he always badmouthed Hollis Mason and most of the other Minutemen.

But that didn't mean he wanted to watch the man die.

"Jesus, Blake, don't go out there! That's not a crowd of kids protesting or some neighbourhood drunks with Molotov cocktails having a riot! Those are mad dog killer gang members with every weapon known to mankind! They'll kill you! You can't go out there!" the Nite Owl told him.

"Oh yeah? Watch me."

Eddie flipped him the bird, and then he was gone.

The Nite Owl looked on in horror as the Comedian jumped into the roiling, violent mob, and it swallowed him up.

"Oh my God." He said.

The Harlequin had jumped to her feet and now she was standing by the open hatch, and looking down.

She flinched, and smiled grimly.

"Well, boys, it's time to drop our socks and grab our cocks! Rorschach, get on that machine gun and give me some coverage. Danny Boy, this is your baby. I know you got some kind of gadget in here to pull us outa this shit. Good thing I got the jump boots. Geronimoooooooo!"

She drew her guns, and before the Nite Owl could tell her not to go, she had jumped out into the street below.

He started flipping switches and manoeuvring, and Rorschach let loose with the machine gun.***

The Comedian realised that he was fucked about two seconds after he landed on the ground, but that didn't stop him from trying to get out of it.

By the time thirty of them were closing in and more than that were on the ground, he had long been out of bullets, going at it with his bare hands and was beginning to think the joke was on him. But then Eddie heard the laugh that he was considering coming from the Owlship as the kid came sailing out and hit the ground running, amid a hail of bullets from the shipboard gun.

She grabbed one of the Knot Tops by his knot top, pulled a Buck clasp knife from her belt, opened the wicked-looking knife with one hand, and cut it off.

The knot, and the top.

Holy shit, the kid just fucking scalped that cocksucker.

She laughed again, and waved the bloody scalp at some of the dead man's pals.

"C'mon! C'mon, motherfuckers, lets get it on!" she screamed.

Look at him run.

Look at all of 'em, running.

She fought her way over to the Comedian, shot a Knot-Top point blank in the face who was in her way of putting her back against Eddie Blake's, and tossed him one of her guns.

"Some fun, huh, Eddie?"

"A real party, kid. We shoulda gone for the dirty movies."

"You got the credentials for that, Eddie?"

"If we get outa this alive, maybe you'll find out, if you go out and buy a fuckin' skirt."

By the time that the Nite Owl used a jet of fire to make a burning boundary between the Comedian, the Harlequin and the mob, and Rorschach had the rioters on the run with the gatling gun, she was out of bullets, too.

But, by now it looked like the good guys were winning.

The Comedian watched the rioting gang members break up and flee, and he realised that he was still alive, and more or less, in one piece.

He turned to the Harlequin, who was standing there with a smoking gun still in her hand, and blood, some of it hers and some of it not, all over her face and her overalls.

She had lit a cigarette, and was pulling a flask out of one of the pockets on her boiler suit.

"Drink?" she asked.

"Sure, kid."

He took a long pull.

"That's the good stuff."

"Best that money can buy."

"So, what the fuck made you do that?" he asked.

"I dunno. I figured if I did something really violent and shocking it might give me enough time to get to you before they killed us both."

"Not that, kid. Although I gotta say it gave those motherfuckers something to think about. What I mean is, what made you jump out of the ship to save me?"

The Harlequin shrugged.

"I dunno, Eddie. I just couldn't sit there and watch ya die. Funny, ain't it?" she replied.

"Hilarious. Hey, Boy Scout? How about landing that fuckin' thing so we can get back in? Ya hurt, kid?"

"My leg hurts. I mean I didn't break it, I can tell, but I landed on it funny. I never jumped out of anything before."

"Lemme help ya."

***

There was a whole lot of silence in the Owlship on the way back to the Nite Owl's lair.

The Harlequin took her right boot off and started examining her knee; it wasn't swelling and she figured it was probably alright.

The Comedian smoked, and shot dirty looks at Nite Owl.

Rorschach, oddly enough, was the only one to say anything on the whole return trip.

"Leg alright, Harlequin?"

"I think so. I can put my weight on it without it collapsing, but it hurts. I think I just wrenched it. I'll have to stay off my feet for a coupla days, that's all." she said, as she put her boot back on.

It was a silence which the Comedian loudly broke when the ship landed and he disembarked, flying into a screaming, spitting, towering rage.

"Please disperse? PLEASE DISPERSE! YOU ASSHOLE! That was your big fuckin' plan? To ask the nice psycho junkie baby-raping criminal fucks to PLEASE DISPERSE? What are you, some kinda moron? Did your mother get drunk and fall down while she was pregnant, or did she drop you on your head after you was fuckin' born! I mean, even that fuckin' faggot Hollis Mason used to go out and fight the bad guys, he didn't sit around all day in a giant flying tin can and tell people to PLEASE DISPERSE! Youse almost got me killed with your PLEASE DISPERSE! You're lucky I don't fuckin' disperse your ass! I'd like to see you try and take me, ya fuckin' poindexter faggot bastard!"

"I had a plan apart from 'please disperse'. I was going to use the capabilities of the ship to encourage everyone to leave with as little danger to us and general bloodshed as possible. That is, after all, the point of having Archie, that a few people can manage a large crowd without putting their lives at risk. I had everything under control until you decided that you were in a John Wayne movie and jumped out of the goddamn ship." the Nite Owl maintained, using a calm, clear and well-modulated tone

The Comedian, still furious, took the low road out of the argument.

He put his fist through the brick wall of the hangar, then ripped a large flashing module out of its housing and tossed it through the nearest available closed window, creating a satisfying shower of debris, sparks, and broken glass.

"Fuck you, Boy Scout! Not only didja almost get me killed, ya almost got the goddamn kid killed, too! An' the kid, who's a fuckin' woman, has more balls than you do! Call me when you grow a pair! C'mon kid, let's get the fuck outa here!"

The Harlequin looked at the Nite Owl, and then at the Comedian, who was stalking toward the exit tunnel.

"Do I go with him?" she asked.

Dan Drieberg heaved a great sigh.

"Liv, I never even heard of anybody doing anything like what you did, tonight. That was the bravest thing I ever saw anyone do. As far as I'm concerned, you don't need to know anything else about being a hero. But the League disagrees with me. They think you need guidance, and structure and they think that Eddie Blake can give it to you. Maybe they're right. But don't lose yourself in him. Just because you're young and troubled and self-destructive, it doesn't make you a horrible excuse for a human being. But the Comedian can make you one. Remember that. But, yes, you go with him. I'll call you if I need you."

"Nobody's all bad, Danny Boy. You and Rorschach know where to find me."

"You comin', kid?" The Comedian called.

"Yeah, I'm comin!. Keep your dick in your pants, I'm comin. I can't walk too fuckin' fast."

The Comedian stood waiting, and the Harlequin got out of the owlship, and limped over to him, and then they both started on their way down the tunnel.

"I need a drink, Eddie."

"Me too. I know some better places than you do. Undo that fuckin' braid. Somebody could yank on it, pull your head back, and slit your throat."

"I never thought of that."

"There's a lot you never thought of, kid. We're goin' to your Uncle's place and we gotta talk. You gotta get your shit together. Can ya walk?"

"Not so good."

"Lemme help ya, then."

The Nite Owl took off his mask, and put his face in his hands.

"I can't believe I just handed Liv over to that asshole, just like that."

Rorschach's mask moved, imperceptibly.

"She made her choice when she jumped out of the ship, Daniel." He assured his sometime partner.

He heard Liv's sardonic laugh echoing down the tunnel, as if the Comedian had just suggested something to her that she would not have even considered letting anyone say to her on the past unless she could seriously injure them.

"Well, I hope she gives the son-of-a-bitch a run for his money." Nite Owl replied.

***

They were both pretty banged up when they got to John McClatchey's bar, and The Comedian could see that the kid was in a lot of pain she wasn't talking about, so he went to get the drinks.

"You a junkie, kid?"

"Me? Fuck no. I did a little chipping in college, but, no, I ain't no junkie. I'm a fuckin' pathetic shit-faced drunk, but I'm not a junkie."

"It's not funny, kid. You are a pathetic fuckin' drunk. I came in here one night, lookin' for you, and you was over there at the end of the bar, so drunk that you didn't know you were here, let alone me. That shit has to stop, right now. If you gotta go to the bughouse, go."

"Fuck the bughouse. I can cut down. I got a reason to, now."

"What, to impress me?I'm not impressed. You got a lot to learn, kid. Your costume is shit, your methods are sloppy as hell and you got a lot of balls, and I can see you used to have a lotta skill, but you're so far into the bottom of a bottle of Jack that you come off like a fuckin' amateur. If you weren't so fuckin' mean and ferocious, you'd be dead. And don't gimme that look. I'd threaten to wipe it off your face, but I'm not gonna fuck around with this slap and tickle shit. You're gonna work, kid, harder than you ever worked before. And one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Quit lookin' at me like it's Christmas early this year! I'm tryna tell you important shit and you're sittin' there thinkin' about sixteen different ways you could jump on my cock. I'm not one of your fuckin' candy-ass punk hippie college boy buddies, I'm a man, for Christ's sake! How about showin' me some fuckin' respect! And you got to learn how to do something besides drink, fuck and brawl. You got me?"

"Yeah, sure, Eddie. Whatever you say."

The kid smiled, raised her glass, and as she put it down, started eyeballing his codpiece with a jaded eye.

Incredible. She was like one of those broads in the movies from the forties. Looked at every man she saw like he was a helpless chump who thought with his dick, and would do anything she said just because she was a woman.  
Kiss you, then kill you.

Except they always looked nice.

"You ain't my type."

"I can fix that."

"What are you gonna do, kid? Put a gun to my head?"

"Yeah, maybe. You like the rough stuff, dontcha Eddie?"

She laughed and finished her drink, but The Comedian wasn't too sure she was kidding.

Crazy broad.

"Can you walk at all? Tell me the truth, kid."

"I'll walk outa here. I don't want nobody here to see me hafta get carried out when I'm sober. After that, I'm fucked."

"No you ain't. I'll carry ya to the car. Brooklyn General ain't far from here, anyway."

***

Around two in the morning, the ER at Brooklyn General got into quite a stir when the Comedian came in through the front doors, blood all over his armor, carrying the Harlequin, who was holding onto the boot he had taken off of her swollen leg.

She was also spattered and splotched with blood.

"I need a doctor here, I gotta woman with a busted leg, or somethin'." The Comedian announced.

Celebrity has its benefits, and a stretcher soon materialised for Eddie to put Liv down on.

"What happened?" asked the doctor.

"She jumped out of an airship. About fifty feet down. We took care of that riot problem, tonight." Eddie told him.

"I see. Actually, I think you might need to be seen, too. That cut on your arm looks like it needs stitches."

"Fine. Take me in with the kid, and sew me up."

The doctor paused.

"Are you responsible for her, sir?" he asked.

"Hey, that kid jumped out of a fuckin' airship to save my life, tonight. She never jumped outa so much as a doorway before. Today I sure as fuck am. Let's go, Doc." The Comedian said.

***

There were times when the Comedian wished he'd never taken the Harlequin under his wing. Times when it was like breastfeeding a pigeon with a very sharp beak.

The joke was definitely on him.

As for good points, Liv Napier was witty and tough, and strong, a fast-learner and a crack marksman and street fighter. She was loyal, but not mindlessly so. And she was smart. Maybe nearly as smart as that prick Ozymandias, but not so sanctimonious about it

She was crafty and she had an innate understanding of villains, and how their twisted minds worked. She could be a lot of fun and she didn't have a lot of bullshit illusions about how shit was supposed to be. It may have been sick, but the kid had a great sense of humour.

She wasn't a drag like most broads were, either. She liked to smoke and drink, she swore like a pirate, and she liked to fight, shoot guns and drive fast. She didn't always need somebody to be there with a giant powder puff to powder her ass every five minutes, and she liked the Stooges, Westerns, and war movies.

On the other hand, she was mean, ruthless, brutal, and cheerfully without conscience, the half-mad devil child of the king of chaos who recognised no limits and had a boundless energy for furthering the amount of disorder in any place at any time. Everything Liv did, she overdid, and her moods swung like a donkey's balls. She was either one way or the other, in the extreme and never anywhere in-between. Liv didn't understand even the concept of consequences and everything and anything, whether in an ironic sense or straight-up, struck her as funny.

And then there were what Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent had dubbed her "Troubles".

Holy shit.

As it turned out, their little Friday night outing was just the tip of the iceberg.

Troubles? Sneezing and having a runny nose is troubles. A woman who cries for a week straight when she isn't tearing your head off right around the time she goes on the rag is troubles. Not being able to eat Mex food without getting the shits is troubles.

Somebody who is half -crocked when they're working and blind, stinking drunk the rest of the time, pretty much morning, noon, and night and relaxes after a long night of breaking up riots and knocking heads together and mixing it up with criminal scumbags by driving through the five boroughs in a '65 Mustang or on a '57 Triumph T- Bird at speeds in excess of 80 miles and hour until she finds the worst dump in the world to get blind stinking drunk in and have a fight with six guys and possibly get cut or shot and dump the bike or ram the car into something on the way home is not troubles.

That would be better described as fucking psycho.

No doubt when Bruce saw Liv in that condition, he looked at her and saw the little kid in pigtails that he first took into his home, without remembering that that same little kid saved the life of the guy that was taking care of her while Jack was in the bughouse again by firing five bullets through the guy's car door at some low-level wiseguy sent to kill him over some gambling debts with a gun her Daddy gave her when she was five and told her to carry at all times.

Liv was a good kid, but she was batshit fuckin' crazy, and as mean as a little wolverine. If you asked her to do something nicely, all you were going to get was laughed at.

To be fair, Eddie gave her a couple of chances when she came around in the morning hung over, or fucked up, or both and just told her to clean up her fucking act or he was going to kick her to the curb.

She didn't listen.

Now, despite the fact that people thought he was a real prick, he wasn't the kind of prick who would punch a girl half his age and half his size right in the face when she had already had the fuck beaten out of her the night before, even if she was stronger than most guys his size and a superhero who had once beaten a vicious sex killer to death with her bare hands.

Smeared the bastard all over the room.

The kid had talent.

No, he waited for a day when she was just hung-over, and only slapped her across the face as hard as he could.

On both sides.

Liv was so surprised that she just stood there for a minute and bled.

That was long enough for Eddie to pin her to the wall.

"Just what the fuck is the matter with you, kid? When are you gonna stop acting like a spoiled fucking brat? And don't gimme that traumatic childhood shit, neither. You spent four years in East New York, scrubbin' floors an eatin' TV dinners, and you only had to kill one guy to get out. The rest of your life, you were in the lap of luxury. First with Crazy Jack, who treated you like a princess an' was nothin' but good to ya, and then with Bruce Wayne, who had even more money and treated ya like a Queen. Sent ya to college, bought ya cars, even trained you himself to be a mask when you said ya wanted to be. You wanna hear about childhood trauma? Try coming out of a family of 12 livin' in East New York for sixteen years, havin' your piece of shit criminal old man walk out when you're 13, and you gotta quit school and go get a job cos you're the oldest boy, and yer mother and yer sisters can't make enough money scrubbin' floors during the fuckin' Depression to make ends meet. Try bein' 16 and responsible for supportin' four kid brothers and three kid sisters after your mother dies from drinkin' too much an' workin' too hard. Me an' my two older sisters, we couldn't work enough hours in the fuckin' day to keep our shit together. I started out in the mask business cos I hated piece of shit petty criminals like my worthless fuckin' old man, I hope he's smokin' and tastin' in Hell, but also cos there was a lot of money in it in those days. And the money you got from the piece of shit criminals. They weren't going to complain to the cops you left 'em for that you robbed 'em. That's how I came up. An' I may have been a little too crazy when I was a kid, an' a little too brutal, but when they let me in the Minutemen, I never pulled the kind of shit you pulled. Cos' I knew if I pissed those guys off thatI was gonna starve and that my family was gonna starve. I'm not your Daddy and I ain't your Uncle Brucie. You pull this shit on me and I ain't gonna take it. You better be able to take it tough, cos if I have to, I'll beat some fuckin' sense into your crazy, ornery hide. And if that doesn't work, your ass is outta here! You get me, kid?"

He thought she was going to come back at him with some kind of smart remark, but all she did was nod.

"Yeah, I got you, Eddie. I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to show youse no disrespect, but, I just don't know what the fuck is the matter with me. I can't just go home and go to bed after a night's work, and when I don't work, I dunno what it is…"

"Lemme cut you off there, kid. It ain't because you're crazy like your old man. I know that's what everybody tells you and they make a big deal about it like it's your destiny and they got a crystal ball and a degree in fuckin' psychology. Bullshit. Jack's crazy, but like they say, he's crazy like a fox, not stupid crazy. You're the same way. Crazy ain't your problem. Your problem is you're fuckin' drunk all the time. I mean I like to have a few drinks, an' sometimes, I like to get fuckin' drunk, but you, Christ, kid, you drink all day long, every fuckin' day. You drink because it's fuckin' sunny, and you drink because it's rainin' and you drink because it's fuckin' Tuesday at 2:30. Sure you cut down, but half the goddamn time you're fuckin' stinkin' drunk like a stew bum in the fuckin' Bowery. So you never know what the fuck you're doing, and you're too drunk to know when to stop fuckin' doin 'it. If I was drunk all the time, I'd be out doing Christ knows what, too. How 'bout makin' a rule not to drink during workin' hours, at least, yunno? You gotta make more of an effort not to be such a fuckin lush, kid."

Eddie let her go, and he went and sat on his couch, and Liv sat next to him.

"Another thing is, you think that cos youse is smart and you got college jobs it makes you a fuckin' pussy, so you gotta go out and prove what a tough motherfucker you are. Which is bullshit. Everybody knows your're a tough motherfucker. If youse wasn't, youse wouldn't be workin' with me, and those two fuckin' slaps woulda knocked you on your ass. Bruce is a smart guy. Clark is a smart guy. The Doc, who you work for, he's an unbelievably fuckin' smart guy. Are they a bunch of pussies? Kid, you don't even have a dick and you can't keep it in your pants. Nobody thinks you're just a dumb girl. Most people don't even realise you are a girl whenya got your coat closed, they just think you're some guy with real long hair. Take a fuckin' break."

Liv looked thoughtful, like Eddie was the first person to tell her something that really made sense.

"And one more thing. I know women. I've had a lot of 'em. Some women can take fucking or leave it, and some women can't take it if they have to leave it. You, you got the itch, kid, and you got it so bad you can't find nothing and no one to scratch it. Tryin' almost got ya killed. Then after you met that sick fuck, you quit runnin' around, which was good, but you still got that itch, which is bad, cos you been tryin' to get off any way you can an' it ain't workin'. Drinkin' ain't fuckin', fightin' ain't fuckin', and drivin' your car too fast ain't fuckin'. And they ain't scratchin' your itch for ya, anyway. You need to do two things to get that fucking itch off you. Forget about what that sick fuck tried to do to you and find yourself a man to take care of you. A real man. If you don't, Christ, you're gonna kill yourself. You're gonna lose your whole head cos you can't get yerself a little piece of tail. The other part ain't so easy. They all tellya about right and wrong and all that shit and how you was born bad and you'll stay that way, and come to a bad end. They tellya about the way things are supposed to be, but that itch you got, it ain't gonna get scratched pregnant in the kitchen makin' cookies, or workin quietly in some laboratory and comin' home at five. That shit's the joke that everybody tries to push on you, and it's shit. You do what you gotta do to survive, and, when you're a mask, you do what you gotta do to make sure they lose and you win. And the bad guys and the good guys ain't always the same guys every time. It all depends on the situation. All that other shit, it's a fuckin' joke, it ain't real, it's shit they tell rich kids in school so they never have to figure out how shitty the world really is. Don't let 'em get to you, kid. Don't let 'em convince you that you're shit and that you deserve to be shit just because you're not as fuckin' stupid as they are. Don't worry about what you're supposed to do, just do what you know you gotta do. Scratch that itch. Fuck 'em. Joke's on them. "

That was the first time she gave him that look.

Jesus Christ, that fuckin' look.

It started out with a long, slow leer on her red lips that tugged at the corners of her eyes, making them slit into two glittery cat's eyes, filled with the kind of laughter they lock people up that leer turned into a grin, and she nodded slowly, with complete understanding, like he'd put the key in the lock and found the prize.

All his life, Eddie Blake had been waiting to see a look like that on a woman's face, to finally meet a girl who got the joke.

Who else would she be?

"Jesus, Eddie, you're the only person I ever met in my life who tried to teach me anything about what people like us do in the fuckin' world that's ever made any sense." She said.

"Sure I am. That's why Wayne sent you to me. Now, are you gonna get your shit together, or am I gonna have to make the beatings those guys you meet in bars look like kisses?"

"You try that and I'll knock you on your ass, old man."

Eddie was about to hit her, when he realised she was just fucking around.

Liv was always fucking around like that, she loved to tease him and goad him and get him all bent out of shape, and she wasn't even a little bit afraid of him, at all.

"Well, if you wanna knock me on my ass, you're gonna have to get your shit together." He told her.

"Eddie, d'you really think I'm not crazy?"

"Kid, you're just as sane as me or any of the rest of us. It's just you figure, fuck it, it's good enough, I'm a superhero, I'm tough, I'm bad like Jesse James. You're bored and you're drunk and you're horny and you don't care. You figure lots of kids your age are bored and drink and horny. And fuckin' high, too. And they are. Most kids your age ain't worth a fuck, though. But most of them are college students, or they live in a fuckin' commune, or with their boyfriend, or their girlfriend, or their mother, or they work in some store. But you're a mask. And that kinda thinkin' will get you killed. I know you was trained better than that, and you're gonna have to cut this shit out and get up to speed. You ain't crazy and you ain't gonna use that as a fuckin' excuse, anymore. Now, next time you come here in the morning hung over, I'm sendin' your ass home. Next time you show up late and drunk, I'm sendin' your ass home. And if I have to send your ass home too many times, don't bother comin back. An' if I have to kick your ass to the curb, I'm gonna kick it there. I'm gonna beat your ass like you've never been beat before. So you get your shit together, kid. Or else? Okay?"

"I'll try."

Eddie slapped her in the face, again, and she punched him in the stomach.

That didn't go as planned.

He really felt like doubling over in pain, but he played it off like it didn't hurt.

"Don't gimme that try shit! You ain't gonna try! You're gonna do it."

"Fine! But quit fuckin' slappin' me around! I'm not gonna stand here and let you slap me around!"

She was really mad.

Jesus, one of these days, him and the kid, they were really going to get into it, and then the shit was going to hit the fan.

"Kid, you ain't. You just pushed my fuckin' guts into my chest."

"Well, don't you hit me, and I won't hit you. Shit, if we keep hittin' each other, somebody's gonna end up dead."

"Yeah, and it might be me. That's what I get for tryin' to straighten your ass out."

"The joke's on you, Eddie."

"Not if I hit you first."

**II: Liv**

So, I guess Eddie takes me down to the docks to work because he don't trust me anyplace else.

Not that I blame him a whole helluva lot.

This shit about getting my shit together and not having my Troubles and having Eddie finish my training, it fucking sucks a lot worse than I thought it would.

For one thing, I didn't realise what a pathetic fucking drunk I was until I decided to slow down. Holy Christ, was I sick there, for awahile. Now I don't feel so bad, but I'm pissed off all the time. All I can think about is how much I need a fucking drink, and how much I'd like to kill somebody, yunno, anybody, when I can't have one.

For another, the man has no fucking interest in me, as a woman.

I mean, I can see that.

I'm not a real feminine kind of chick. I never figured out all that smile and be alluring shit. Honestly, I never met a man who was a better man than I was before I met Eddie, if I wanted to ball a guy I let him know and if he was too scared I laughed at him, if he didn't want me I didn't care and if he wanted to fuck, we fucked.

Eddie, now, he's a different story. I mean, I gotta work with the man. And if he turns me down, yunno, the way I feel, I might go fuckin' crazy, and he could really hurt me.

That's the other thing.

I never met anybody before who could kick my ass.

I'm pretty sure I could fuck him up pretty good, too, and if I could get him on the ground, I know I could take him, but, yeah, Eddie could kick my ass.

I don't know. I never met a man like him. The day he sat me there on his couch and just told it to me like it was, man, that was some heavy shit. I still don't know how he could tell just what I was feeling, just what I was thinking inside my head.

Especially the part about the itch.

That fuckin' itch. It started itchin' me just a little when I was about 12 years old, and the goddamn thing got worse and worse and worse every day until it's like a goddamn third degree burn, blazing and burning and itching.

It keeps me up at night, that fuckin' itch, and it leads me out at night to go and do the crazy shit I do, and all that shit, it scratches it a little, kind of feels good and eases that raw, burning itch, but not much, not much at all and before long the itch is back, ten times, tem million fuckin' times worse than it ever was before.

You can't get too close to people, when you got an itch like this. It keeps you away from them. The itch gets bigger and the world gets smaller and most of the time you're all alone with it, just you and the itch.

I'm not just talking about fucking. Fucking is part of it, a goddamn big part of it, but it's not just an itch for fucking. It's and itch for everything and it can't be scratched, and now that I'm not drinking as much, sometimes I feel like I'm gonna go out of my mind.

It's worse at night, cos I like the night, it's when I'm really on the ball. When I'm out there workin', walkin' up and down the docks with Eddie.

Jesus, you don't know how I feel, I'm telling you.

Sometimes I just stumble along behind him and I don't know where I'm going, I can't see. I can't see the moon, even when it's there, and I can't smell the river and the garbage, and I can't feel the cracked pavement under my feet.

It's just me and Eddie and the goddamn itch, and I'm following after him like a bitch in heat.

Sometimes I get a good look at him in a certain way when the reflection of the dingy streetlight catches the thick cigar smoke curling around his mask and his black leather armour as the light splashes off the pool of dog piss and gasoline he'd just tromped through and I see him grinning at nothing in particular and I feel like somebody opened up my guts with a rusty sharpened screwdriver and that their busting out of my belly onto the pavement, even though I'm desperately trying to hold them in.

I want that man so bad I can taste the way he smells in my mouth.

I remember when he opened that fucking hatch and jumped out of Archie and I saw the crowd close over him and I thought, shit, Liv, there he goes, wave goodbye, he ain't coming back. I couldn't stand it, I couldn't take it, I had to save him or I had to go out there and die with him and fuck me if I knew why then, and fuck me, sideways if I know why, now.

But I gotta take it, that gut-busting pain, and I keep on walking along and the goddamn itch is fucking burning me and I feel light-headed from lust and violence and that need a drink need a drink feeling, and I swear I just want to lie down on the concrete and smack my head against it until my brains squirt out.

Either that or I want to jack Eddie up against the nearest wall and I don't care if I have to get down on my bare knees on broken glass or lie down in the street in the same, sometimes I feel like if I can't have him I'll kill one of us, or maybe both of us, and like Mick Jagger said, I have to turn my head until my darkness goes.

The man doesn't even notice I'm a goddamn woman.

Not that I can blame him. The only thing I do that women do is fuck. I may look like a woman, but I don't talk like one, or think like one, or act like one, or even dress like one. All Eddie ever sees me do is run around covered in blood or motor oil cursing and beating the shit out of people and playing pool and having a goddamn drink, and he's not like the other cats I've met , he's not too scared to not fuck me to just fuck me and get it over with.

And short of putting a gun to his head and telling him to take off his clothes, I don't know how the fuck to make him come across.

I guess I gotta act like a girl.

I'm not sure how to act like a girl, but I got that sleazy costume, so, maybe if I put it on and bend over to pick up my car keys, I'll get lucky.

I'd better.

Cos it ain't gonna be pretty when I get to the end of my fucking rope, not for either of us.

**III: Eddie**

Then, there was her costume trouble.

Holy Christ.

He had already told her that a painted up second-hand boiler suit that didn't fit her and a Halloween mask was no kind of fucking costume.

But, that formal costume she'd spent her own money on was even worse.

She had a full face mask, with the top like a jester's hat, bells and all. The rest of it consisted of a leotard that was so low cut in the front it answered his question as to whether her tits were real, a pair of black high heel calf-high boots, thigh high stockings in three different colours and garters.

All of the sudden, she had herself all packaged up to look like a woman, and the kid was a real knockout.

Sure, he liked the costume. He liked the costume so much he wished he hadn't been wearing his costume, as he immediately had a painful accident with his dick and his body armour.

Still, as a costume for working in, it wasn't good for shit.

"Jesus Christ, kid, where are you goin'? To a sex show?"

"Don'cha like it?"

"Yeah. I like it. Lemme see it a little closer."

She was fast, but she wasn't fast enough, caught off guard to stop him wrenching her arm around her back and bending her over.

She started trembling, trembling all over, shaking like a leaf, and she threw him off, violently.

The Comedian almost fell over.

There she goes, blowing hot and cold again. If Eddie didn't already know better, he swore he'd just hold the crazy bitch down and fuck her.

But he wasn't so stupid as to make the same mistake twice, especially not with a woman who wouldn't hesitate to kill him, and shoot him if she couldn't do it with her bare hands.

"What the fuck are you doing? You know I once killed a guy, trying that shit on me!" she roared.

"Relax, kid. I'm not gonna do anything to ya! The question is, what the fuck are you doing? Are you wearing anything under that thing?"

"Who wants to know?"

The kid was still pissed off.

She had this funny, crazy look on her face like she might do anything, and Eddie wanted to take a step away from her, but instead he got in her face and screamed at her.

"Reader's fuckin' Digest. Just answer the goddamn question!" Eddie barked.

"No. So what?"

"So what? So that means any fuckin' piece of trash in the world can do whatever he wants with you. You can't kill 'em all, kid. What f there's ten or fifteen of 'em? What have you got to protect yourself? A little strip of cloth, here?"

Eddie put his hand between her legs, not touching her, and snapped his fingers.

The kid thought otherwise.

"Hey, leave my snaps alone, Eddie. You scared the shit outa me and I ain't in the mood, now. Jesus."

Snaps?

"Snaps? The fuckin' thing opens with snaps?" the Comedian managed to say.

"Yeah. I mean, what if I have to piss?"

Snaps. That was it.

The Comedian had an extremely vivid metal picture of hauling the kid back over to him, tearing those three snaps open, unfastening his codpiece and solving her problem of not having a man to keep her happy.

Then, he remembered the sex freak, the murderer who tried something on her that she didn't like, and how they couldn't find his cock and his balls at the crime scene, and didn't locate them until the autopsy, when they found them jammed all the way down his throat.

Eddie let her go.

"Un-fucking believable. What you mean is that you know you'll have to piss because you're drunk all the time, and what if you're beating the shit out of some punk and you decide he's not bad looking and you'd like to fuck him before you finish beating him up. And what about those boots? Start running."

"In these? I'll kill myself. And my tits will fall out of this get-up. Not to mention they'll hurt like a motherfucker. No support in this thing."

"Great costume, kid. What's to stop six guys from gang banging you and leaving you in a puddle to die?"

She looked at him real cocky-like, the old, fuck you I'm from East New York cocky.

"I'd like to see them try it."

"Oh yeah?"

Eddie pulled her gun out of the holster on her belt and put it to her head.

"Okay, Bruce Lee. So you can kill a guy with your bare hands. Try it now. Keeping in mind if you move, I pull the trigger and your brains are all over the wall. You get me?"

"Fuck. Okay, so you made an asshole out of me. Fuck you."

He put a gun to her head and the kid didn't even flinch.

She was one stone cold motherfucker.

"Hey, kid, better me than somebody else. You want your costume to say, "Don't fuck with me, I'll kill you, not, "One of you at a time or all of you together." Nobody's gonna take you seriously in that shit. Look at Sally Jupiter. She didn't want to be an underwear model, she wanted to be a superhero. In that costume of hers, everybody took one look at her and thought she was easy. Take it from me, I'm the bad guy, right? You need combat boots, a good pair you haven't painted up, you need a top that'll keep your tits from flopping around, and you need serious body armour. You need two guns, and holsters that are tied down, so nobody can grab your guns. Get a smaller mask, not one that one covers your whole head so you cant see around you. And lose the bells. Whaddya gonna do, announce to the bad guys that you're comin? This superhero shit is serious, kid. You don't see Bruce runnin' around in just tights and a cape. Clark does, but he's fuckin' invincible. Bruce wears more armour that Fort Knox. And look at me? Do I have my balls hangin' out? Fuck no, I got more armor in this costume than two Fort Knoxes. This ain't the Lookit My Tits and Fuck Me, Daddy show, okay? Get something in two pieces so you can take your pants of and take a piss and look like you mean it."

For a minute there, Eddie thought she was going to break his nose, but she reached inside a pocket on her belt and took out a little notebook and a pencil.

"Lemme write that down. Couldja repeat that? Especially the part about the lookit my tits and fuck me, daddy show. I gotta tell the guy who makes my costume that specification. " She said.

"Go change your clothes, wiseass."

Eddie watched every swig of her hips and twitch of her ass as she left the room.

He could feel his balls turning blue, but he had already been to the "I'm gonna go change my clothes" party, and he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.

Not with a stone cold killer, at any rate.

After the kid left the room, the Comedian went over to his bar and had a few slugs of whiskey right out of the bottle.

She was getting to him. He wasn't used to having anybody around who could kick his ass, let alone somebody who might kill him on the spin of a dime, and a broad at that.

And if she was so goddamn mean and dangerous and bad, why the hell was he so goddamn hot to fuck her? What made her different from every other broad he ever met, that he could take or leave and never give a second thought to?

Probably because she was mean, and dangerous, and bad, and she was a little redhead built like a brick shithouse.

The kind of broad who was made to be fucked, and fucked often.

Eddie realised he still had the bottle in his hand, and he took another drink.

"I gotta be nuts. Getta hold of yourself, Eddie, this is serious shit. Quit thinkin' with your dick instead of your brain. You wanna lose your whole head just to get a little piece of tail? We're talking about Jack's kid, here. She could turn on a dime and fucking shoot me while my back is turned. Or when I'm sleeping. And I never see her with a man, except that grease monkey. She don't own a fucking skirt. She probably is a dyke and she's teasing me because she thinks it's funny. She thinks everything's funny."

He took yet another drink.

"This ain't gonna end up well." He muttered.

It turned out that he was absolutely right.

***

After about three or four months of him training her, Liv was showing a great improvement.

She'd cleaned up her act and quit doing all her crazy shit; it was the longest the Harlequin had gone without having her Troubles since 1968.

The kid even had her boozing down to a low roar, she was pretty much under control.

Liv was, however, poised to get into a different kind of trouble, altogether.

After that shit with the costume, the Comedian started to get pissed off.

He wasn't used to worrying about whether or not somebody was going to kill him, let alone somebody he was supposed to be showing the ropes to, and a broad, to boot.

He finally had it figured out.

That fucker she killed, he turned the kid completely against fucking.

Whenever she got horny for a man, now, it made her want to kill him.

So, it was just fine and dandy with the kid, she'd let him in, but later, well, he ran the risk that later they'd find him smeared all over the room, after having made a last meal of his balls.

Well if that was what floated her boat, that was a shame but it was fine for her, so long as she didn't try to drag Edward Morgan Blake into it.

No fucking way, he wasn't that kind of stupid.

Now the Comedian was never sure if he could trust the kid enough to being her in on any of his government shit, and he had discovered she didn't have a specific area of the city where she's done her rounds, so he just took her down to his old haunts on the waterfront.

That shit was pretty rough, but the kid could take it.

She was an odd fish, the kid.

It wasn't like he'd never been around a broad who was a mask. Sal was, and their kid was, and it wasn't as if either Sally Jupiter or her kid were cream puffs who were better off in underwear ads than out on the street.

Neither of them had what the kid did, though. She was tough like a man was tough, like fuckin' Superman was tough. You could beat her, shoot her, stab her, it only made her mad. You could put a bullet in the kid and break her fuckin' jaw and she's still put her bare fist right through your belly and rip your guts out.

Literally.

Eddie kept thinking about her jumping out of the Owlship and fucking scalping the first Top Knot she could grab. The motherfucker was twice her size, she punched him in the stomach and when he bent over she produced a wicked-looking Buck knife and scalped him. That was what she did on the job.

For fun, she drove her souped-up muscle car, drunk, at insanely high speeds, and got into bar fights with assholes who were dumb enough to fuck with her.

No doubt about it, the kid was wild, violent, and when everybody threw their hands up in the air and shoved her at the biggest son-of-a-bitch they could think of, out of control.

Sure, he had her behaving, but she was like a mad dog on a big chain that he was holding her back with and beating her up with at the same time.

All you gotta do with an animal like that is let the chain slip for a minute and it rips out your fucking throat.

How he was supposed to tame this beast, he didn't know, but he decided he had to find out just what the kid had.

He had to try her, and he had to show her who was boss, and that she wasn't going to play her little game with him.

Not unless she wanted him to make a woman out of her, again.

That was what he wanted, and he wanted it, bad.

Almost bad enough to take a chance on his life.

After all, he was bigger than her, and stronger than her, and he knew how to make a broad light up like a Christmas tree.

Maybe all she needed was somebody to show her that every man wasn't some sick sex freak. That was it. Maybe if I can get her to quit being so nervy and jumpy long enough to throw a good fuck into her, she'll remember how much she used to like it.

The Comedian scowled at his own logic.

Yeah, good idea, Eddie. Show her you're a good guy and that she can still have a good time with a man by holding her down and giving it to her whether she wants it or not.

Yeah, that'll work.

The Comedian tossed the butt of his cigar onto the pavement and stamped it out.

It was time to see if the kid was as tough as she thought she was, and time to tell it to her like it was.

Eddie Blake was 47 years old, and he had spent 31 of those years as a masked hero. He was a brutal, violent man by nature, and fought in two of the most brutal wars in world history, and almost single-handedly brought one to a close. He cut his teeth fighting in the streets of East New York before he was even ten, and cleaned up the waterfront at 16. His reputation was fearsome; the mere sight of the Comedian, armed with nothing but his fists was enough to make some crowds disperse. He was six foot two and weighted 220 pounds of muscle, and was in better shape than most men half his age.  
The way he saw it, before he could fight the kid to a standstill, she'd probably break his nose, and maybe crack a rib or two, and give him a black eye, at the most.

That is, if she couldn't get him on the ground.

If she got him on the ground he was going to have to shoot her and wing her, unless he wanted his brains all over the pavement.

He had a good idea how he was going to make her mad enough to try him, too.

Not to mention it was something that somebody had to tell her, and every other man she ever met was probably too fucking scared to say anything.

Besides, he wanted to know where he stood.

The Comedian waited until they had made it to the darkest, seediest part of their route. Places where no honest business had ever been done, at least not in the last century. They passed abandoned factories and rowhouses, crumbling old warehouses, and the East River smelled rotten, like garbage and carrion and bodies as it rolled past them.

A place where nobody would ever come to bother them, no matter what they did.

"So, tell me, kid, how's your sex life? You gettin' any?" he asked.

She gave him a funny look, but she answered the question.

"Sure I am. What, you think I can't get laid?"

"By a man? Fuck no!"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you fuckin' old bastard!" she demanded.

They stopped walking.

Eddie turned to her, and as he spoke, he repeatedly poked his finger at her chest.

"Look, kid, lemme tell you something. When you bothered to quit getting smashed to pieces and put that fuck me daddy costume on, I noticed that you were a real nice-lookin' broad. I mean, just for a minute there, you actually seemed like a woman to me. I was gonna try it out with you, but you got so fuckin' jumpy, I figured, fuck this. This broad, she don't know what she wants. But, listen, and I don't care if he is a fuckin' hippie, broads who walk around dressed like grease monkeys with blood and crankcase oil on their fuckin' Rolling Stones tee shirts, always wearin' dungarees and combat boots, don't exactly get a man goin. I mean, unless you're a fag, and you want some other fag to fuck you in your ass, or somethin', tattoos and motor oil don't make your dick hard. Not to mention that I guess even a fag wouldn't want some guy who always looks like his face has just been through a machine and stinks like a fuckin' distillery. I mean, if you ever wanna get laid by somebody who wants to see you again the next day and ain't some kind of junkie derelict biker scumbag, you better go buy a fuckin' dress, and try not to take so many hits in the face. But considering you're all fucked up since that sex freak tried to screw you, it don't matter. And it's not my problem. Just quit teasin' me, alright? I know all about your silly little game and I'm not playin' it. I wouldn't fuck you with a stolen dick if you had the last pussy on Earth."

Well, the last part was an out and out boldfaced lie, but it did the trick.

Liv's eyes narrowed into angry, catlike slits, and she balled her hands into fists and her nostrils flared in fury.

That evil Joker smile crawled across her face until it was as wide and broad as her Old Man's, and it really didn't make Eddie feel too good.

It made him think he might have gone a little too far.

Oh shit Eddie, the fucking joke's on you.

Then, Liv Napier, who was five foot three or four and 145 pounds to Eddie Blake's six two and two-twenty did two things that nobody else had ever been crazy enough to do to the Comedian.

She spit in his face.

Then, she called him a cunt.

"You're not gonna fuckin' talk to me like that, you fuckin' cunt! I'm gonna make you take your fuckin' medicine!"

Eddie was so surprised that she'd spit in his face and called him a cunt that he wasn't ready for the first punch.

Kid had a hell of a right.

He staggered back a few steps as the heel of her hand smashed into his nose and smeared it all over his face in a gaudy spray of bright red blood.

He got out of the way at the second shot, which was perfectly aimed at his kidneys from the side, in the unprotected spot where the two parts of his armour joined up that nobody else had ever noticed.

The sight of his own blood and the mere idea that she actually called him a cunt made rage flare up inside the Comedian like gasoline on an open flame. He came around from the blind spot that nobody knew she had in her left eye, which was just a little lazy and gave her the full force right in the face.

Her head turned violently to one side and blood just sprayed out of her mouth, and he really expected her to fall down in a heap.

She didn't.

Liv staggered back a few steps, shook her head a little, and smiled.

Smiled.

Oh shit.

"Is that all you got for me, old man?" she said.

She rushed him again, and he thought she was going to go for the eyes and anticipated that, but at the last possible minute, she ducked down and head-butted him like an angry little bull.

Before Eddie knew it, he was on the ground, and before he could get his gun out she was sitting on him in such a way that her legs were around his hips and he couldn't get to them.

Her gun, on the other hand, was pointed right between his eyes.

They were both bleeding, and they were both breathing hard from exertion.

She was, incidentally, also sitting directly on his cock, and as soon as she realised it, a strange look began to come over her face.

He could tell she wasn't thinking about hitting him, anymore.

Then, just like that, she did the fucking craziest thing.

"Fuck it! Eddie, you motherfucker, get this through your head! I sure as hell don't wanna kill you, and I do not want to fight with you, anymore!"

The kid put her gun in its holster, leaned over him, put her hands on either side of his face and laid the most ferocious, desperate, hungry kiss on him that any woman ever had.

That was some kind of fucking kiss and he thought she might have cut her lip on his tooth but neither of them cared.

"That's what I want, ya numb-skulled son-of-a-bitch!" she finished.

Then, just as abruptly, the kid got up off him, with this weird look of confusion on her face and she just turned around and ran away.

Had Eddie not been on the ground, you could have knocked him over with a feather.

So that was it.

She had probably never wanted to hit him to begin with, and she hadn't meant to be a tease, it was just that, like somebody else he used to know, the mean, rotten little bastard didn't know how to ask nice.

And there Eddie was, lying in the street on his back with a raging hard-on and blood dripping out of his nose.

Jesus H. Christ, what a fucking night.

He got up and ran after her, and it took some running to catch her, the kid could run like a fucking deer.

When he caught up to her, he didn't give her a chance to say shit, or, more importantly, to do shit, like hit him again, or take out her guns, he grabbed her and held her hard so she couldn't move and he kissed her back.

"Okay kid? Okay?" he finally panted.

"Yeah, Eddie. Okay."

"Good. Did I break your jaw?"

"Naaah. Did I break your nose?"

"Naaah. Let's get the fuck out of here and go get cleaned up and have a fucking drink. C'mon."

***

He wanted to get her home, but the Comedian had to set the kid straight on something, so that he would never find himself looking down the barrel of the kid's gun again because nobody had ever taught her any manners.

They went to Trivelino Mac's, and after cleaning themselves up in the johns, Eddie was buying.

"We got a bigger problem here than I thought we did. Look, kid, you might not have liked what I told you just now, and yeah, I said it in the shittiest way possible just to get you mad, but it was true. Alright? I mean, I'm tellin' you this as a man, the only man you ever met who isn't too scared of you to tell you anything. And you know what else? Fuckin' ain't like most things. You, you're like me when I was a kid. All your life, you see somethin' you need, you take it. You never wait for anybody to say you can have it, if you need it, you take it. And if somebody says that you can't have it and you need it, you figure, fuck you, and you beat the shit out of them, and then take it. That's how it works in the street. That's how you survive. Well, fucking doesn't work that way."

"I know that! I'm not stupid!"

"The fuck you do! Look, kid. Think about it, in your whole life, didja ever ask anybody nice? The minute you had me on my back, the first thing you thought was, fuck this motherfucker, if he won't give it to me, I'll take it from him. He'll like me well enough when he can either get it up for me or I turn his head into a canoe. Like I said, I tried that approach with Sally Jupiter, and I didn't get what I wanted. She was older than me and I guess she was playing some little game with me I didn't understand. Comin' onto me, teasin' me, givin' me the old bedroom eyes an' tellin' me she was gonna go change her clothes. I guess if I woulda just let well enough alone, I woulda got what I wanted, anyway, eventually. But what the fuck did I know? I was young, dumb, and full of come, and I wanted her so bad that just lookin' at her made my balls hurt for a week. I wasn't even thinkin' how I was hurtin' her when I was slappin' the shit outa her, even though she was callin' me by name and screamin' for me to stop. I wasn't thinkin'. My dick was doin' all the thinkin' an' I was followin' it right off the Brooklyn Bridge. An' I got kicked outa the fuckin' Minutemen, Sal didn't talk to me for another ten years and that fuck Hollis Mason wrote a book about me being the biggest prick in the world. And, yunno, I really liked Sal. Maybe if I hadn't been such a fuckin' asshole we coulda had somethin'. Her life didn't turn out too great either, yunno. But I blew it. Ya gotta ask nice, kid. And ya can't make somebody come across. Ya never get what ya want that way, unless you're some sick fuck, and what ya want is to hurt somebody. Jesus, kid, didn't nobody ever tell you nothing about fucking?"

"Nothing like that. I never really thought of it…Jesus, Eddie, I'm sorry. I dunno what came over me. But when you started sayin all that shit about me, I got so mad, I wanted to fuckin' kill you! Then, I was thinkin' about keepin' you from gettin' to your guns and that's why I jumped on top of you, but then, all the sudden, I didn't feel like killin' you anymore, an'…an' I don't know what I was thinkin, then. Like you said, I wasn't thinkin'. Jesus, what the fuck is the matter with me? Look, Eddie, I don't wantcha to think I'm some kinds fuckin' freak show. I mean, I'm not into the rough stuff, I don't need to be slapped around and I don't need to start wavin' guns around to get off. Yunno?"

"Don't worry about it kid. I unnnerstan' ya. You're young, you're horny, you got an itch so bad you can't stand it and all you want is a good fuck, and you couldn't figure out what the fuck I wanted and what was keepin' me from givin' it to you, and then I went and called you a dyke. You got mad. If somebody called me a faggot, I woulda called them a cunt and hit 'em, too. It's alright."

"Yeah, but, Jesus, Eddie, did you really think I was a dyke?"

Women.

Jesus Christ.

Well, at least the kid was finally acting like a girl.

"Kinda. I mean, you don't look much like a dame, and you don't act like one. But I understand you ain't a dyke, or fucked up, now, I do. I get it, kid."

Eddie grinned at her. He could care less about a bloody nose, a couple of bruises and some mud on his armor. He didn't give a shit about the thing with the gun, either. Nobody's perfect. All he cared about was that he was finally gonna collect on that raincheck the kid have him the night he met her, and he was going to make her goddamn glad that she wasn't a dyke; in his mind the Comedian was already sitting there and thinking about all the ways he was going to give it to her once he got her back to his apartment.

Well, all the ways except the one that would get his balls torn off.

The kid, however, didn't get it that she was getting a green light.

"You don't have to look so fuckin' happy about it! Jesus, I'm so fuckin' embarrassed! You prob'ly think I only decided to come an' work with you cos I like the way ya look in guns an' black leather." Liv muttered.

Eddie laughed, switching his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

So, she wanted it with the costume on, too.

Come to think of it, he'd never had it with a mask broad in her costume.

There was a kick he hadn't tried.

Might be fun.

It would liven up those long nights on the docks, that was for sure.

"So, ya really got it bad for me, huh, kid?" he crowed.

Liv gave him a hateful look.

"Yeah. I do. You wanna hear me say it? Fine. You're a real goddamn man, Eddie. First one I ever met outside the movies. I never met a meaner, more low-down dirty rotten son-of-a-bitch than you are and you bet your ass I got it real bad for you. I'd fuckin' get down on my bare knees on broken glass just so I could suck your dick. There, I said it. I hope it made you fuckin' happy."

Liv downed the rest of her Scotch and Coke, emphatically.

This time, the Comedian laughed so hard that he almost fell out of the booth.

"Now that's what I call askin' nice! C'mon, let's get the fuck outa here. I got plans for you."

"Ya do, Eddie?"

"Kid, I had plans for you the night I met you. Finish your drink."

***

As soon as they got in the door of his apartment, the Comedian slammed it behind them, threw the butt of his stogie into the nearest ashtray, grabbed the Harlequin around her waist and kissed her, violently, pressing her shoulders against the wall.

"You want me to break a glass for you, kid? I mean, I don't go for all that shit, but, if you insist, what the fuck?"

"Shut the fuck up, Eddie." Liv suggested, laughing.

They rolled each other down the wall, each taking a turn with their shoulders smacked against it, growling and gasping for air, knocking pictures down in small explosions of splintered wood and shattering glass, furiously fumbling with each other's body armor.

Armour that was designed to keep intruders out, not invite them in for a good time.

The Comedian was so frustrated that he slammed his fist right through the wall.

"Fuck! Is your fuckin' costume completely fuckproof, kid?"

"Mine? Jesus, Eddie, whaddya do when youse gotta take a piss?" Liv demanded.

"Let me do it." He snarled.

He couldn't get the one of the straps undone.

"Goddamn motherfucker, what the fuck is this! Fuck!"

"Lemme try it again. It's fucking stuck, the cocksucker! Lemme get a good grip on it…there it goes!"

The strap was in her hand, she ripped it off.

Eddie just looked at her.

"Kid, that strap was supposed to be bombproof."

The Comedian grinned.

The parts of Liv's costume that weren't armoured were made out of a super stretchy fabric that was guaranteed to be rip-proof.

Eddie grabbed hold of two handfuls of it, and pulled, tearing the whole top in half along the seams, ripping right through the space-age Kevlar chest plate.

"Goddamn Eddie, you're one romantic son of a bitch." Liv marvelled.

She and Eddie both laughed, and then they launched themselves at each other again, with a far greater ferocity than when they had fought.

Their hearts had just not been in killing each other.

Swearing horribly, the two masked avengers went through the process of taking off their masks and costumes and weapons as they moved towards the bedroom and the bed, leaving a mask here and a gun or a boot or a belt there along the way.

Liv had managed to pull off all of her clothes by the time she got the door shut, and while Eddie was taking the A-line undershirt he wore under his armour off as she pulled him over to the bed, she was taking off his shorts.

All of her long red hair was falling over her, and over the bed, and over him, and she was panting, and had this fucking crazy look in her eye.

The Comedian stepped out of his shorts and the Harlequin slid backwards towards the headboard.

She smiled that slow, lazy, sloe-eyed leer at him and stretched out all over the king-sized bed, reaching for him with her arms and her legs as he climbed into bed.

How, exactly had he missed how hot for him, shit, how hot for cock in general, she was?

The kid wasn't just pretty, she was a real fucking knockout.

"I take it all back. Kid, you're on fire."

"C'mon, scratch my itch, Eddie. C'mon….c'mon, scratch it real good…"

***

About a half of an hour later, Liv Napier was stretched out across more than half of Eddie Blake's kind sized bed, her eyes closed with a happy little smile on her face, a half-conscious pool of slow, sleepy satisfaction.

She was pretty foggy on where she was, fairly foggy on when it was and even a biz hazy on who she was, again, but she felt good, damn good, from the tips of her hair to the blunt ends of her fingernails to the tops of her toes.

What itch?

Where?

Somebody in the room was singing, or humming and somebody got up and the bed was lighter, and when it was heavier again she rolled over one way and almost fell out of bed, so then she rolled over the other way and met up with something solid that was larger and hairier than she was.

Eddie put his arm around her.

"Goddamn, kid, I'm glad you didn't fight me the way you just fucked me, I'd be dead." He chuckled.

"I can't make a fist. I don't even know what my name is. Eddie, you're the best, man. You're the fuckin' best." Liv mumbled.

She sort of wished she had a cigarette and she looked up at Eddie and he wasn't smoking, just lying there and staring at the ceiling.

"Aren't you supposed to have a smoke and fall asleep?"

"Not till I'm done, kid."

"You're not done?"

"I ain't hardly got started yet."

He did fall asleep, though, and so did she, and when they woke up Saturday morning was coming through the windows, and they both had a smoke and then they caught their second wind.

***

On that Saturday morning, the Comedian missed three personal phone calls from President Nixon, who, paranoid as usual, sent a Secret Service agent with a pair of binoculars and a to pose as a window washer on the skyscraper across the way.

The blinds only opened for a half-hour, then closed again.

He reported back on Saturday afternoon that the Comedian and his apprentice, the Harlequin, were having a busy weekend, and the phone was probably unplugged.

"Well, then, I think I'll call back on Monday." Nixon decided.

When Liv did not return to Wayne Manor by Sunday morning, Bruce Wayne began to worry that she was having her Troubles, again, and he also went to the Comedian's apartment.

He knocked on the door for a long time, and was finally met by Eddie Blake looking pissed off and tying his bathrobe.

"Is Liv here?" Bruce asked, casually.

"Yeah. She's fine. You want her to come to the door?"

"No, this is embarrassing enough. I thought she was having her Troubles again, that's all."

They muttered a few more things to each other, and then, with a sense of mingled relief and dread, Bruce Wayne departed.

On Monday morning, Liv was three hours late to Dr. Manhattan's lab.

Laurie had been worried all morning, but in that Liv had never been three hours late, even the doctor himself began to look at the buzzer on the wall by her name and wait for it to light up.

They had both expected her to be mangled and beaten beyond recognition as the green buzzer lit up and the doctor teleported her to the lab, but she wasn't.

There was not a scratch on her, she was dressed as usual, and had her lunchbox in one hand and a half-drunk bottle of orange juice in another, and a donut sticking out of her mouth.

She juggled orange juice and donut in one hand.

"Sorry I'm so late, Doc. I had a real heavy weekend, and I was out like a fuckin' light this morning. Lemme go put my shit in my office, an' I'll get to work."

"Go ahead and finish your breakfast, Liv. I don't mind."

You did not have to be Dr. Manhattan to play connect the dots, and he did not wish to pursue the matter any further.

Laurie, on the other hand was terribly curious, and she got to Liv after work, while Liv was locking up her desk drawers.

"Liv, you've never been more than ten minutes late to work even when you got stabbed the night before. Who is he, Godzilla?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Lar."

That wasn't like Liv.

Liv always wanted to talk about it. If she had a good time with a man, she'd sit there and tell Laurie every single detail that she could possibly remember, right down to the guy's measurements and whether or not he gave good head.

There could be only one reason Liv didn't want to talk about who it was who lit her up like a Christmas tree to the extent that she was still glowing.

"Oh Liv! You didn't!"

Liv shrugged, and a slwo smile spread over her face.

"Yeah, I did." She said.

"With him? That is so fucking disgusting! I remember when I caught you reading that sleazy fuckbook you tried to play it off like it was just one of your usual sleazy fuckbooks, but you always liked him! Just like some dumb groupie, slobbering all over a poster of a big, bad man with big, bad guns, wearing lots of big, bad, black leather. You just couldn't wait to get your legs around that piece of shit asshole, could you? What the fuck is the matter with you?"

Liv laughed.

"I'm sorry, Lar. I'm a mean, mean woman, and I'm bad like Jesse James. I'm badder and meaner than most cats who I ever met, than most cats who ever breathed. I like a man who's as bad as me. A big, mean, lowdown bad motherfucker. And they don't come bigger, meaner, badder or more lowdown than Eddie Blake. I can't help myself. It was a match made in Hell." She said, laughing

"Liv, I'm serious! You could get hurt!"

"Whaddya mean, hurt? Look, Eddie's a violent guy, but not in the sack, okay? He's not some kinda sicko. Look, I'm serious too, Lar. I had a fuckin' itch since I was 13 years old that nobody and nothing could give me a minute's relief from, the kinda goddamn itch that makes you fucking raw. And I got that goddamn itch scratched so good that I don't hardly know it's there, anymore. I don't know how, and I don't know why, and I don't care, either. Just let me enjoy it, okay?" Liv asked.

Laurie tried to think about what Jon would say.

That Liv was a tortured soul, and that wherever and however she could find some peace it was good for her, and that Laurie shouldn't judge her.

"Okay, Liv. But I don't want to know about it."

"Fine with me. I'd like to keep it to myself, anyhow."

***

The Comedian was in Washington on Monday as well, meeting with President Nixon.

The business part of the meeting concluded, Nixon figured he'd pull the old boy's chain a little, get him going.

"Well, I was thinking about giving you the week off, Eddie. To recover. I mean, you're not Superman, after all." he joked.

"Christ, Dick, do you know everything that everybody does?"

"No. Not everyone. I just set someone to check on you after you didn't answer your phone. I thought you might have been in danger. I didn't realise how much. I should have sent in the Marines."

"Hey, I can handle it. Trust me, I don't need no reinforcements. I'm a better man at 47 than most of these tea-smokin' hophead pussies are at 27. But…"

"But?"

"But I'm glad the kid had to go to work today. Holy shit! Lemme sit down before I fall down!"

"That bad, huh?"

"If the kid don't kill me one way, she'll do it the other."

"But what a way to go, huh? It must be something to be a superhero. Fast cars. Excitement. Young women falling all over you. You can stop me anytime you want, Eddie, and tell me it's not all it's cracked up to be."

The Comedian helped himself to one of Tricky Dick's cigars.

The poor, sad, old bastard wanted to hear some big story, but this one Eddie was keeping to himself.

"Yeah, but I'd hate to lie to you like that."

Watching Richard Nixon laugh was an unsettling experience that made Eddie Blake glad that he was a lifelong Democrat.

***

He was driving back to New York and he stopped at the lab for the kid.

The Doc didn't seem too surprised to see him, and he had this sort of faintly amused look on his face.

"What? Do I look tired?"

"I can teleport Liv back to New York. You didn't have to stop."

"I'm drivin' back. So I came to get her. What? Do I look tired?"

"You don't have to make an excuse to me. If you want to spend some time with your apprentice, go ahead. And no, you don't look tired."

"I ain't. I'm tellin' ya, Doc, I feel like I could rip a man's spine out with my bare hands."

Dr. Manhattan knew the Comedian well enough to know that meant that he was in a good mood.

Liv came out of her office, acted casual when she saw Eddie, and he acted just as casual.

"Hiya, Kid. You're goin home the long way, today?"

"Can I drive?"

"As long as I get my turn."

"Sure ya do, Eddie. After all, they say it's better to give than to receive, but, I'm easy, I like both."

They had a laugh over some private joke, and left.

Laurie came out of Liv's office after the Comedian and the Harlequin were gone.

"Jon, just what the hell do you call that?"

"Proof that neither one of them are as completely psychopathic and alone in the universe as they thought they were."

Laurie thought about a world in which the Harlequin and the Comedian were a team and involuntarily shuddered.

"No, I'm not sure it's such a good idea, either." Dr. Manhattan concluded.

***

Shortly after that, the shit hit the fan, as it became common knowledge in the superhero community that Eddie Blake and Liv Napier had decided to take their budding partnership a bit more personally than before.

At the next Justice League meeting, Liv was nearly slack-jawed with shock, sitting in her usual seat and witnessing the commonly mild-mannered Clark Kent go on a thunderous tirade reminiscent of a crazed South American dictator.

She reported it back to Eddie with bemused shock, saying that her only comment was that she was a grown woman and what she did with The Comedian or any other man was beyond the scope of what the League's charter allowed them to regulate.

But seriously, the way people acted, you would have thought that they caught him fucking a sheep at the petting zoo at the Bronx Zoo in front of all the little kids and a busful of nuns.

It had caused a real shitstorm, back then. Everybody was up in fucking arms about it; he was getting angry phone calls from half the Justice League about violating ethics and codes of honor and a lot of other laughable shit.

She's half your age, you're supposed to be her mentor, she's disturbed, you're a pig, you're immoral, you're an asshole.

Morons.

With the exception of Muck and Fuck, that is Kent and Grayson, Eddie didn't believe for a minute that if any of them found themselves in the position of having a good-looking young girl with big tits who liked fucking the way most broads liked chocolate and diamonds lying around in their beds, ripping their clothes to shreds and panting after their cocks that they would have done anything different.

They all knew what her problem was, the fucking bunch of faggots. They just didn't want to say it. They knew they were the ones who drove her to drink and despair, with all their fancy bullshit talk about ethics and honour and morals in a crazy piece of shit fucked up world where none of that existed when all the kid needed was a man, a real fucking man to scratch her bone deep itch that was driving her out of her mind, and if she ever wanted the itch to go away somebody had to tell her it was okay not to be a chump and a sucker and a fucking Pollyanna asshole and see the world the way it really was.

Goddamn bunch of pussies. Where the fuck were they with their ten dollar words and their fucking shrink doubletalk when the kid was going down the toilet and all they did was shake their heads?

Eddie was in the worst of all possible mood when none other than that shining bright boy of the killjoy of killjoys, Hollis Mason's four-eyed poindexter understudy, had to get into the act.

It wasn't like Eddie never made an effort to talk to the guy, and try to get along with him, but when he and the Inkblot were on their way back to Nite Owl's hangar and Eddie told them the story of how he and Liv ended up together, at least the Inkblot saw the humour in it and managed a chuckle or two, but Hollis' Boy Scout just looked disapprovingly at his controls.

"Dontcha get it, Danny Boy? I mean, here I am, walkin' around all day long with blue balls, thinking about how if I touch the kid, she'll try to kill me, and what does she do? She loses her shit and smacks me in the nose and puts a gun to my head because I ain't touched her. Women, yunno? I'll never figure 'em out."

The Boy Scout still wasn't laughing.

"Jesus, Eddie, that sounds pretty rough. I mean, maybe Liv's a little…unstable?"

"Unstable? Of course she's fuckin' unstable! Her father's the Joker and she hadda kill a guy when she was eleven years old! What, you ain't unstable? You're get dressed up in an owl suit and go beat up bad guys at three in the morning! Relax, Boy Scout. Nobody got hurt, and now we got everything all figured out."

"That's not what I meant. I mean, maybe she needs some, uh, help. You know, like to go see a doctor. I mean, it's not normal for somebody to be so self-destructive. And violent. I know you're trying to help her out, and I'm not saying that I think you and Liv shouldn't be…involved, but people don't usually do things like that to people they care about. At all. In any way. Maybe Liv needs a professional, too."

"That's not a good route for masks to take, Daniel." Rorschach interrupted.

"You know, Boy Scout, you oughtta pay more attention to your friend, here. He's a lot fuckin' smarter than you are. Whaddya mean, she needs a professional? You mean like her father needs a fuckin' professional?"

"No. No, Eddie, not, ah…"

"You mean like up at Arkham, with her crazy father, where she belongs?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't fuckin' have to! Jesus, it's always the same shit with you! Mom, Dad and Apple Pie! Easy for you to think so, you was born with a silver spoon in your mouth. And you fly around in this fuckin' hunka junk as far as you can get from the street and everybody in it. Well, me and Liv, we're soakin' in it. We're from the street, Dreiberg. There's no fucking excuse for you, chief. Bruce comes from a rich family, and he has his cars and his planes and shit, but he don't hide behind them the way you do. He's in this game because some criminal piece of shit killed his parents right in front of him when he was a little kid. What are you in it for? The kicks? Pussy? I'll bet a poindexter like you didn't get much of either before you became the Night Owl. Liv's a good kid. She doesn't need help from the likes of you. She's smarter than you are, she's got more balls than you have, and she could kick your ass any day of the week! She's my fuckin' partner, and if you ever say anything like that about the Harlequin ever again, I'll kick your ass all over this joint."

Eddie reached over to the control panel, and hit the button that activated the fire jets, then he got out and started walking down the passage that led to the street.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" Dan insisted, as he jumped out and ran for the fire extinguisher.

"I dunno. I'm unstable. I need help from a professional. See you tomorrow, Boy Scout. Give a hoot, don't pollute."

Sarcastic laughter echoed through the hangar, as Rorschach got out and helped the Nite Owl put out the flames.

"How did I know that a guy like Eddie Blake could fall in love with somebody? I feel bad for Liv. Jesus, what if she loves him, too? What an asshole! No, I shouldn't say that. Maybe his parents beat him when he was a little kid, or something. I guess everyone deserves to be happy. Takes all sorts to make a world, right?" Dan muttered.

"His father died in the chair. Violent man. Abusive. Beat the wife and the kids. Shot a cop in the face. Career criminal. Walked out on a family of twelve. The Comedian was the oldest son." Rorschach replied.

"Really? Oh my God! No wonder the man is such an animal! How did you know that?  
Rorschach shrugged.

"You hear things. I wouldn't drag love into it, Daniel. Got to stand behind you partner, that's all." Rorschach opined.

"I don't know. I mean, is it really a good idea to have a violent man from a broken family looking after a violent woman from a broken family, both of them telling each other how it's okay to be crazy and violent?" Nite Owl replied.

"Don't look at it that way. Comedian's father was worthless criminal scum. Abused his family. Abandoned them. Harlequin's father is worthless criminal scum. Murdered her mother, went to jail, abandoned her. They didn't follow in their fathers' footsteps. They're on the side of what's right. That's all that matters." Rorschach concluded.

The Nite Owl sometimes envied Rorschach his ability to see everything without those annoying shades of grey that kept you up at night when you didn't have your costume on.

"I wish I could see the world the way you do. It would make it a hell of a lot easier to do this job."


	3. Born Under A Bad Sign

**III: Born Under a Bad Sign**

**New York City, 1937**

**I: Eddie**

Eddie Blake was glad to have a job, a real job that was on the level.

He took the subway every morning and went the building site where his company worked in a new pair of coveralls and workboots with newspaper stuffed into the toes and a shiny new lunchpail. Crazy Jack had bought into a construction company, and he grandfathered 14 year old Eddie into a job he wasn't supposed to be able to hold down until he was 16, and supplied him with the new work-clothes and boots and even the hardhat he wore that was too big for him.

Eddie was growing like a weed, he was sure he'd grow into it. He worked 12 hours a day and it was hard work, too hard and too long hours, some said, for a young man only 16, who was really 14. But he was a strong lad, big for his age, and old beyond his years.

He didn't mind working, it didn't bother him.

The important thing was that the Old Man was gone, he was gone forever.

In a couple of weeks they were going to throw the switch on the wicked old bastard and he was going to smoke and toast in that chair the way he was going to smoke and toast in Hell, forever.

He was gone, and what was left of the family was safe, safe from him, and the very idea of that cocksucker breathing his last in agony put a smile on the face of his oldest son, the person who had been his victim and his adversary the longest.

A smile that died on Eddie's lips as he scaled the third of three flights of stairs to their East New York apartment.

Familiar sounds came from behind the door.

Things breaking, the little kids crying, his mother screaming in pain and terror and the Old Man, the Old Man like a demon out of Hell, swearing and shouting in his wrath.

"…I said youse better gimme some fuckin' money, ya lazy cunt! I gotta get outa the city!"

"Fuck you, Mickey! You take that gun and shove it up your ass! You might as well kill me because I ain't got no fuckin' money and if I didn't I wouldn't give it to ya, ya fuckin' shanty bastard!"

Eddie ran up the last few steps, and burst in through the door.

His father was beating his mother with the butt of a .38, beating her to the ground as she cursed him and the little kids cowered behind Aggie in her waitress uniform and Edie, who was still dressed in the clothes she wore to work the street.

Edie lifted up her skirt, and reached into the top of her garter belt to pull out a switchblade.

She saw Eddie and they exchanged looks.

Mickey Blake didn't see his oldest living son until it was too late, and Eddie swung his lunch-bucket as hard as he could and clipped Mickey in the face with it.

The lunch-bucket was only slightly dented; Mickey definitely got the worst of it.

He went down to the floor in a shower of blood and teeth, and the gun skittered across the kitchen.

Mickey Blake was out cold.

"I'll call the cops." Maggie Blake was mumbling.

She got the gun, and Mickey's wallet, and put them in the pockets of her apron.

"Fuck the cops! This ends here!" Edie Blake insisted.

"Get the little kids and Aggie out of here, Ma. You don't want them to see this." Eddie agreed.

"Edward! Edith! That's your father! You can't!" Maggie protested.

Eddie balled his hands into fists and Edie moved next to her brother, and flicked the blade open.

"My ass! The law had their chance!" Edie snarled

"You better go, Ma. You'd better get the little kids and Aggie out of here." Eddie reiterated.

Margaret Blake picked up her youngest daughter from her high chair, and herded her four other younger children and her second oldest daughter, Agnes, down the stairs and out of the apartment.

She was promising them something, anything, through her swollen lips as tears ran down her puffy, bleeding face.

Aggie shut the door behind them.

Meanwhile, Mickey Blake slowly regained consciousness, moaning and drawing himself to a sitting position.

He found himself alone in the kitchen with Eddie and Edie, both of them black-haired and black-hearted as he was, advancing on him.

That slut Maggie didn't have the balls for it, and Aggie wasn't the type and the little kids were too little, but Eddie and Edie, they were a couple chips off the old block.

Stone cold, right down to the bone.

Mickey tried to smile.

"So, this is how it ends up? Well, better my own kids than the fuckin' chair. I raised you right, I done, you grew up to be a coupla chips off the old block. Fight fair, willya? Give you old man a chance ta get up, huh, Eddie?"

The way he spoke reminded Eddie for a minute of when he was a little kid, and he used to sit on the steps outside and wait on his father to come home.

His Old Man, the biggest, strongest, greatest man in the whole wide world.

He could pick you up in one hand and lift you up so high that you could almost reach up and grab the sun right out of the sky.

It made Eddie wonder how the fuck they had gone from that to this.

"Sure, Pop." He said.

Mickey Blake, the most feared enforcer in Hell's Kitchen, drunk, contract-killer, wife-beater, child-abuser, rapist, murderer, cop-killer, felt in his pockets for one last cigarette.

"Shit. Fucked again." He mumbled.

"Here, Pop. Have one of mine." Edie said.

Eddie lit it for him.

Mickey knew what kind of man he was and what he had done to his children; he wasn't about to ask them for mercy, and he sure as shit wasn't going to show them any.

A moment passed between Mickey Blake and his oldest living children, a moment in which birthday parties and ice cream cones and shiny new nickels and trips to Coney Island mixed in with beatings with booted feet, closed fists, coat-hangers, his belt, anything he could get his hands on, mixed with burning with lit cigarettes and a hot iron and brutal, merciless, drunken rapes in a murky pool that mingled screams of joy with screams of terror, all winding down to this, the end of all things.

Mick the Merciless finished his cigarette and drew himself to his feet to face the daughter and the son he had beaten and raped and tortured and abused all their lives.

"I'm not goin, easy." He warned.

"We wouldn't expect you to." Edie replied.

"But you're fuckin' goin, Pop. Either you or us, this is fuckin' it!" Edie snarled.

"Fine with me. I'll see the both of you in Hell."

Mickey Blake, Eddie Blake and Edie Blake all lunged forward at the same time.

A chorus of yells filtered out the window and were swallowed by the noisy summer street as Maggie Blake used the money in the wallet she had lifted from her prone husband's body to buy her younger children some ice cream from the truck on the corner.

"Ma?" Aggie asked.

"Don't say nothin', Aggie. What kinda ice cream you want?"

***

According to the report filed by East New York cops, cops who respected the memory of Maggie Blake's father, Sgt. Edward Morgan, cops who had arrested Mickey Blake for countless crimes against his family and the rest of the neighbourhood, the hated and feared "Mick the Merciless" died in his apartment while resisting arrest.

His body was quickly and quietly cremated, and the cleaning crew from the local precinct cleaned the Blake family kitchen until it was spotless.

Edie Blake spent a week in the hospital, suffering from a lacerated lung.

Her pimp picked her up at the end of it, and she went back to work on the street, continuing to come home every once in awhile, always with money for the family.

Eddie Blake returned to the building site in midtown Manhattan where he worked the next day with stitches in his face, a black eye, his broken nose taped up and a cast on his left hand; he had broken two of his fingers and three of his knuckles.

The three policemen who came to the scene had only disclosed the details to other cops, but in neighbourhoods like East New York, the walls have ears, and the word on the street travels fast.

In death, "Good Looking" Mickey Blake, "Mick the Merciless" wasn't good looking anymore.

His skull was multiply fractured, shattered, his face pulped, his very brains had been pounded into jelly, not by any blunt instrument but by human fists.

He had been stabbed at least thirty times, deep wounds that penetrated into his bones, and, some said that he had also been emasculated.

The story went onto say that when they came to remove the body and picked it up, it simply fell apart.

After that, Edie Blake had to quit her job as a streetwalker, and her former pimp had her out selling dope and putting the arm on junkies who couldn't pay; men were afraid to touch her.

As for Eddie Blake, everybody in the neighbourhood started giving him a very wide berth.

As the old _strega_ who lived in the building across the street from the Blake family observed,

"Mickey Blake was a devil, and God's own couldn't kill him and the Devil's own wouldn't. But his children, they belong part to the Devil and part to God, so they could and they would and they did. Only time can tell whether they will choose to serve God or Satan. It's their choice."

**New York City: 1940**

**I: Sally**

Sally Juspeczyk wasn't sure what it was about Eddie Blake that she liked, but there was something.

He was just a kid, he was only seventeen, he didn't even have a license to drive.

But he didn't look like a kid, and he didn't act like a kid, even at 17, the Comedian was quite a man.

Sure, he was the kind of a man that nice girls were supposed to avoid, but the Silk Spectre didn't consider herself to be a nice girl.

He was a good-looking guy, and he was funny, in a sarcastic kind of way, and she didn't get the feeling he was looking down on her because she was a broad or because she had been a dancer.

Besides, she was only twenty, and all the other guys, they were so much older than her. They were all married, or practically married and none of them ever wanted to go out anywhere. Not like Eddie. He kept crazy hours, he was up for going out in the middle of the day or late at night, but those were the best times, when everybody in the city wasn't out mobbing places, and you could go see a decent band or a movie and have a few drinks, smoke the occasional reefer, enjoy yourself.

He never had any money, Eddie didn't, and he told her right off the bat that he didn't have any money, but since they always went out in their costumes, they got a lot of things on the arm.

You could have fun with Eddie, that was for sure, and he didn't mob you and ask for your phone number fifty times and try to get in your life and be your only boyfriend and shit like that. He was a tough guy, but Sally had grown up in Brooklyn, too, albeit a nicer neighborhood that Eddie had, and she'd met lots of young tough guys just like him, it didn't bug her.

Hollis, who acted like he was everybody's father, he was always warning her about getting too close with Eddie. You better watch out for that Blake kid, he's not like the guys you grew up with or met when you were a dancer. He's like a wild animal, and wild animals have a tendency to turn on you.

But Sally knew something all of them didn't know.

She knew why Eddie was like a wild animal.

Dancing had made Sally some good money, and, actually, so had the masked adventurer game. She had a pretty nice apartment, and her own car.

It was a used car, but it was hers, nonetheless.

It started out with Eddie saying he thought it was a nice car, and she laughingly said she'd teach him to drive, and then he ended up talking her into teaching him to drive.

Goddamn Eddie, he could talk you into anything.

On one hand, Eddie was a rotten kid, and he was showing signs that he'd grow up to be a bad man. He drove with the horn, and with his mouth; he was the kind of guy who'd get out of the car and have a fistfight with somebody. Every time she saw him he looked like he'd just been in a fight. Pain didn't seem to bother him, he took it and violence for granted, whether it was the pain and violence he inflicted on others or what they inflicted on him.

And sometimes the crooks he routed showed up at the precinct, and sometimes they floated down the river, as dead as they were ever going to be.

On the other hand, you got the idea that Eddie was trying, really trying, to learn how to be a decent person, and that he wanted to be a decent person.

For all his violent nature and his quick temper and his apparent brutality, he really wasn't a bad man, at heart.

Eddie had a heart, he had feelings, everybody does. There was generosity in Eddie, and tenderness, and Sally had seen both, not just to her, but to the family that no one knew the seemingly unattached teenager had.

Sally was driving Eddie across the bridge to Brooklyn when he took her completely by surprise.

"Hey Sal, I know I only got this permit an' I can't drive on my own, but you gotta let me borrow the car. My kid sister, she's real sick, and I gotta take her to this doctor uptown. She's not well enough for the subway. It's tomorrow, at noon."

Sally didn't even know that Eddie had a kid sister.

"You ain't such a good driver yet, Eddie. What about your parents? Can't they take her?"

Eddie got a strange look on his face, a very un-Eddie sort of look, and then, he bounced back.

"Canya keep a secret, Sal?"

"Sure."

"We got no parents. The Old Man got his up at Sing-Sing awhile ago, may he smoke and toast in Hell, forever, and Ma died last year. We usedta take care of the little kids together, Ma and me, but now, it's just me. Ya can't tell on me, or somebody'll come and take the kids away. Until I'm 18, they say I got no right to keep 'em. Fuck them, it's my fuckin' family. I'm their brother I can look after 'em, I don't want some fuckin' stranger doin' it. Over my dead fuckin' body they'll take those kids away from me. I'm all they got." He said.

"How many, Eddie?"

"Four. There was 12 of us, but only me and my two sisters who don't live with me and the four little kids made it. I trust one of my sisters with the kids, but not the other, yet. It ain't been long enough for me that she got off the street, and she's got that piece of shit pimp still chasin' her. One of these days, I'm gonna put that cocksucker on ice." Eddie growled.

Sally didn't know what to say.

She just remembered how her father used to tell them that if they thought they had it bad there were lots of kids in this city that had it a helluva lot worse than they did.

Poor Eddie, he was one of them.

"Jesus, Eddie, yunno most guys your age wouldn't do something like that. Take care of their whole family. Sure, I'll help ya out."

That was all she could think of to say, and Eddie didn't say anything at all.

***

Sally sat on the broken-down couch in the main room of an East New York apartment that smelled like cooking grease and cigarette smoke that wasn't big enough for five people to live in, trying to graciously make conversation with the four children between 5 and 12 who were clustered around her, raptly.

The place was clean, the kids were clean, and so were their clothes, which weren't overly ragged, and they all seemed to be reasonably well-fed, but it was still no way for kids to grow up, no place for them to live.

But they had probably lived there all their lives, and in worse conditions. And they didn't really have any other place to go or anyone else to look after them, did they?

And Eddie, Jesus, he was just a kid, himself, he was only seventeen.

"Are you Sally?" one of the two little boys asked her.

"Yes, honey. What's your name?"

The little boy just blushed.

"That's Mickey. Tell her how old ya are, Mickey." Eddie yelled from one of the other rooms.

Not that there were many other rooms. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen.

Little, shitty rooms.

For five people.

"I'm eight." Mickey said.

Eddie came out of one of the bedrooms, dressed in street clothes.

She could see why he always wore his costume.

The bottoms of his pants were frayed, the cuffs of his welder's coat barely reached his wrists, his shirt looked threadbare, and his cap was worn through around the brim.

He probably had newspaper on the bottom of his boots, too, they looked pretty beat up.

"The oldest, Ruth, she's 12. Mickey's 8, Jimmy's 6, and the little one, Edie, she's five. What a good lookin' family, huh?"

The three youngest children cleaved themselves to their older brother like he was the most important man in the world.

To them, he was.

"C'mon, guys, break it up. I gotta go take Edie to see the doctor. Ruthie, you watch the little guys for me until I get back, okay?"

The oldest girl, who had sandy-blond hair and blue eyes, nodded.

"Okay, Eddie. Should I make food?"

"No. You're too little, ya stay away from that fuckin' piecea shit old stove or you'll blow up the whole place. I'll make youse dinner when I get back."

***

The doctor prescribed medicine for little Edie and bed-rest.

After Sally drove Eddie back to the apartment, she watched him put the little girl to bed in one bedroom, a small one with one other bed.

The other bedroom had bunkbeds for the boys.

"Eddie, where do you sleep?"

"Onna couch. You wanna stay for dinner? C'mon, I insist."

He was fairly good at cooking, and the kids washed their hands before they sat at the table, and they all took part in setting it, but they were all rowdy, even the girl, they all smoked, and Eddie smoked, and they swore at one another until Eddie brought the food to the table and yelled at them."Shut the fuck up 'n eat, an' quit showin' Sal how tough youse are."

And everybody laughed, and they said their prayers and then ate dinner.

Sally didn't know what to think.

She got even more confused a week or two later when she got a call from Eddie in the middle of the night.

His oldest sister and his second oldest sister were in trouble. He needed the car. Would she help?

Sally didn't hesitate to say she'd be right over.

She didn't ask Eddie any questions in the car, she just drove him from East New York to Hell's Kitchen, parked in front of the building to told her to, and followed Eddie into another building, and up three flights of steps.

He knocked on the last door at the end of the hallway.

"Who is it?" asked a tough-sounding female voice.

"It's Eddie."

The girl who opened the door had red hair and green eyes, and she was wearing a waitress' uniform.

"Thank God you're here! She had no choice. He wouldn't let us alone. He's in the kitchen."

There was a rough-looking middle-aged man lying on the kitchen floor, with towels all around him and about five bullet holes in him.

He was as dead as he was ever going to be.

A very large young man with blond hair wearing coveralls was shoring up the towels with more towels.

"Did you do it?" Eddie asked him.

"No. I would have killed piece of shit with bare hands." The man replied, in broken English with a heavy Russian accent.

"Me too. C'mon, let's get this garbage outa the kitchen. Sal, lemme have that meat sack."

"Hey, I'm no stranger to dead goons. I'll help ya out." Sally offered.

Sally and Eddie and the Russian packed him up into the bag for stiffs that Sally had got from Hollis, along with the towels, and Sally washed her hands in the bathroom sink, showed to her by another girl with black hair and brown eyes like Eddie's.

"I'm the one who did it. I killed him. He used to be my fuckin' boss, he was my fuckin' responsibility." The girl said.

"Well, he's not going to bother you anymore, honey, that's for sure." Sally said.

When she came out, Eddie and the Russian took the stiff downstairs to the car, and the brown-haired girl, the one who was used to be a hooker, came with them.

"I appreciate you gettin' me outa this jam, Eddie. You know I'm out. I been out since I met Ivan. He's got his papers and he's gonna move in with us, now. I been cleaning houses, like I did with Ma. I'm straight now, Eddie, yunno I am."

"You'd better be. And I better not catch you with any more of that fucking junk. Sooner or later, it's gonna be war, and you're gonna hafta take care of the kids. I mean it. I won't send youse to jail, I'll put youse in body bags."

"Eddie, I'm clean, I've been clean for six months, I swear on our mother's grave."

"Good."

"Here. It's half his money. Take it. For the little ones."

"Are you sure yuh don't need it?"

"Nah."

"Don't worry, Eddie. I take good care of girls. They both have job, I have job. We get bigger apartment, one on fourth floor. We have nice quiet life, babies someday. Like regular Americans." The Russian assured him.

"Yeah, I hope so. I'll seeya round, okay? C'mon Sal. Let's go."

***

Eddie got rid of the body at the docks; when he got back in the car he was wiping blood off of his boiler suit.

She didn't ask him any questions.

"My sister's not a bad girl. She's just fucked up. Yunno, she's only 16 and she was with that animal since she was 12. He turned her out and got her hooked on junk, and later on he had her selling dope and shaking down the other junkies. But she was better off with him than at home. He never beat her he way our father beat her. Not to mention that the Old Man, that goddamn sick piece of shit criminal bastard, he was fucking her. His own daughter. Ever since she was a kid. He did it right in front of the rest of us, just like he did to Ma, sometimes. Just to show us who was boss. He made us and he could do what he liked with us, that's' what he used to tell us. Well, when I got old enough and big enough, I put a fuckin' stop to that. Evie and I did. He's dead and that dope-pushing pimp motherfucker, he's dead, too. Maybe now she'll be alright. Her and Aggie and that big dumb Russkie bastard, right?"

Eddie laughed, and he pushed in the cigarette lighter.

"I told that pimp bastard to leave her alone. For a fuckin' year. I told him she was straight and she didn't want nothin' to do with him. I said I'd kill him, but I never got the chance."

Sally hadn't exactly grown up in a rich family, but they were a normal family.

"Eddie…Jesus, I had no idea."

"Don't tell anybody, alright, Sal?"

"I won't. You, ah, you take pretty good care of those kids, yunno? And your older sisters, too. That Russian guy, he seems okay."

"Awww, he's not too bright, but he's a decent guy. I mean somebody hasta look after the family. It'll be niceta have another man ta help me out. We got nobody else. Nobody else gives a fuck. They never did."

They sat in silence for awhile, and then Sally put the radio on.

It wasn't long after that that Eddie got his driving license and with money finally starting to roll in, he bought a car, and moved the kids to a rowhouse in Bensonhurst.

He got them a dog, some mutt he found wandering around down by the docks, probably, and Sally went there, once, to see them all running around in the little yard full of secondhand toys with the dog, swearing and laughing and having a good time, with Eddie looking on like some kind of combination of Fagin and the Artful Dodger.

With a little Bill Sykes thrown in for good measure.

It wasn't long after that when he showed her that Hollis was right, you can't tame a wild animal, he can always turn on you.

Years passed.

Time didn't heal her wounds, it just put distance between her and the night that Eddie the loveable mutt that she left food on her porch for turned on her like a vicious junkyard dog. He was away in the Pacific, being a war hero, and she supposed that one or both of the older sisters were watching the kids while he was gone when she and Hollis got to talking about why she'd never pressed charges against him for what he tried to do to her.

It wasn't so much that she was ashamed, or even that she partially blamed herself.

That's what she told Hollis, but that wasn't the whole truth.

Sally knew she couldn't tell Hollis about Eddie's dead mother, and his ex-hooker sister who killed her pimp who was trying to stay clean, and the two little brothers and little sisters who depended on him, and the ghost of his father, a big, brutal, violent man, a criminal who died in the electric chair, who beat his sons and raped his daughters.

Jesus, what if it wasn't just his daughters?

"Eddie's got enough trouble, Hollis. And I'm never gonna speak to him, again. That's enough. Just let it go."

Hollis Mason, however, wasn't sure that he could let it go, and he wasn't sure that Sally could, either.

**New York City, 1948**

**III: Sally**

Like a lot of women in America, Sally Jupiter kept a picture of Eddie Blake.

Unlike most of them, it wasn't a poster, it was the picture of the two of them together, with the rest of the Minutemen.

And when her husband, who was also her publicist, who she had never really loved and was beginning to not really like too much wasn't home, she sometimes had conversations with it.

Even though she was pretty sure that the real Eddie Blake still lived in Bensonhurst, and she saw him, here and there, in the course of business, from time to time.

"Goddamn it, Eddie! This is your fuckin' fault! I'm in this mess causa you! You junkyard dog waterfront rat bastard, you! I guess I married Larry cos he was everything you weren't. Stable. Educated. Respectable. And did I say boring? Boring! Shit, he's boring all day long, and worse, boring all night. So maybe I wanted it from ya? So sue me? Was that a crime? I didn't want it then, not with everybody waitin' in the other room, and I sure didn't want it the way ya tried ta give it to me! Ya rotten bastard, couldn'tcha wait? Didn'tcha know any goddamn better? It's your fault, Eddie! All your fault!"

Of course, most of the time Sally knew that everything she didn't like about her life wasn't all Eddie's fault, and that he wasn't worth the powder it would take to blow him to Hell, and half the time she didn't even think about him.

Most of the time.

But when she did think about him, sometimes she even missed him, sort of.

One thing about Eddie, until he decided to try and beat her half to death so he could rape her, they always had a good time.

And the motherfucker remained a real good-lookin' son of a bitch, too.

Things were worse when Sally drank, and as the mask game became less and less of a real vocation to eradicate crime and more and more of a stunt to sell underwear and action figures and her marriage got worse with every passing day, Sally had more time to drink.

And one bad, drunken day, she decided to get even with Eddie Blake.

She met a guy in a bar at lunchtime, a former GI who had flown 42 missions in the belly of an airplane with her likeness painted on it.

He seemed like a nice guy, and he looked one hell of a lot more manly than Larry did.

She asked him if he wanted to go to the Biltmore to have another drink.

Sally always took the guys she picked up to the Biltmore, a girl she went to school with and had danced with worked the front desk on weekdays, and she knew how to keep her mouth shut.

He was a nice guy. Idolised her. He was starstruck that she was drinking with him, and he was starstruck that she wanted to get a room for the afternoon for them, but he wasn't too starstruck to be able to do his duty.

She was polite to him when she left, and politely skirted his efforts to make a date for another meeting, another drink, an address or a phone number.

Sally had the room for the rest of the day and she didn't mind if the guy stayed in it, she was going home.

She didn't want to get attached to any of these guys; it was easier, this way.

On the way home she had a few more drinks, in another bar, and it occurred to her that most of the guys she had her afternoon dates with, the younger ones and the older ones and the guys around her own age, the ex-GI's and the starstruck young fans, and the good-looking older guys who seemed to understand her more than the rest, they all had one thing in common.

They were all generally the same height and build as Eddie.

They were all of them Eddie but not Eddie, over and over again.

That realization made her mad, mad enough to look at her watch and see it wasn't time for school to be out yet.

Mad enough for her to drive to Bensonhurst and park a block away from the house where Eddie had lived and go pounding on the door.

He still lived there, the son of a bitch, and it was an hour until those kids got home from school and he was still in his goddamn bathrobe.

He was sure as hell a man, now, a full-grown man, six two and two-twenty, but no sooner did he let her in the door than she got that first punch in, hit him as hard as she could, harder than she had ever hit anybody before, and she knocked out a couple of his teeth.

That gave him something to think about.

Eddie hit her back. Not the first time she hit him, or the second, but he had to, because Sally was beating on him like she meant it, like he was some shitheel in the street she was trying to bring down, and when he hit her she hardly felt it, she just kept fucking hitting him, it felt goddamn good to hit him, and hit him, and hit him again, and tell him what a lousy, rotten, no-good shanty Mick cocksucker he really was.

He didn't go down until she kicked him right in the balls, like she was punting a football, and that was it.

It was over almost as soon as it started, and then whatever had got into Sally in that bar just left her as fast as it possessed her, and there she was, with blood on her hands and blood on her coat, and Eddie's goddamn front door was still open and he was in a daze on the floor, eyeballing one or two of his teeth, holding onto his nuts with both hands and swearing into the carpet.

"Fuck, that hurts! I ain't even got my shorts on, fa Chissakes! Are you done, Sal?" he croaked.

"Yeah. I'm done. That makes us even, now, Eddie." She told him.

"Yeah, but didja have to kick me in the balls? There goes my whole night."

"Considering what you tried to do to me, yeah! Here's your other tooth. I'll put 'em in a wet towel for ya. Your dentist can put 'em back in, if you get there in a hurry."

She thought he was going to hit her on the sly when he finally got up, but he didn't, all he did was close the front door, then stagger into the kitchen and use the phone.

"Hey, Edie? Can you get the kids from school? I dunno, use Ivan's truck, I'll bet he ain't workin'. No, I'm fine, I just had a coupla girls over and I lost track of time. I gotta clean up the place. No, I ain't hurt, I'm just tired. Really. Look, Edie, just go get the kids before they leave and walk back here. You feed 'em tonight and I'll come get 'em, later. Okay? Bye."

Eddie stumbled into the can, and Sally wondered what she should do, now.

She stood in the kitchen for awhile, listening to the water running in the bathroom. She wasn't sure why she wasn't leaving, so she washed the blood of her hands and her coat and then Eddie came out of the bathroom.

He didn't bother to put a towel around his waist, he just walked into his bedroom, and came out a few minutes later in fatigue pants and boots and a fatigue A-line undershirt.

He had cleaned up his face pretty well, and put a few clips on the cut over his eye; after he washed all the blood off his face it looked a little better.

Not much.

"So, the old ball and chain is going on a trip next Friday and he'll be back Saturday night. You can show up around noon, if you're still innarested." Sally found herself asking.

The crazy bastard, instead of getting mad at her, Eddie got this big smile on his face.

"Of course I'm still innarested! I got your poster right here on my bedroom wall. Yunno, where I can see it. When I'm lyin' in bed. All by myself." He leered.

"That's disgusting, Eddie."

"Ya didn't think so when I come outa the can."

"I was just surprised you didn't put something on."

"Ya looked surprised, Jesus, ya still look great, Sal. As good as ya look on that poster."

She had the feeling he was going to try and kiss her, and she ducked.

"Eddie, you crazy motherfucker, I just kicked your ass all over the place."

"Yeah, well, ya shoulda done it years ago, if that was all it was gonna take for us ta start mendin' fences. I deserved it, yunno? I had no fuckin' business, doin' what I did. So, you drivin' me to the hospital?"

"Are ya hurt that bad, Eddie?"

"Naw. I just can't drive, I'm seein' double. An' my dentist don't work on Wednesdays."

"Sure. I'll drive ya. Then maybe we can go have a drink."

"Just like old times."

"Yeah. Somethin' like that."

***

After they got through at Brooklyn General, Eddie stopped at a phone booth and told his sister to keep the kids for the night; he was out with an old friend.

Then, they went out and got blind, stinking drunk. So drunk Eddie could hardly open his front door and Sally almost crashed a few times on her way home.

She couldn't believe what she did. She also hardly noticed she had a shiner until she came home and Larry asked her what the hell happened to her and she told him she got clipped stopping some guy from stealing a coed's purse.

"Are you sure it wasn't a bar fight?"

"Fuck you, Larry. I put the food on the table around here, I'm entitled to go out and have a good time if I want to, I sure can't have one at home."

He didn't say anything.

Larry was a lousy arguer. He'd say something snotty and yell a little but if she got really mad, he'd just back down.

It wasn't so much that he believed her or didn't, it was just that as long as she was still pulling in the big bucks and nobody was taking her picture tomorrow, Larry didn't care.

The longest week of Sally's life crawled by, and left her thinking that Eddie had a picture of her, on his wall, in the bedroom, a poster, hung where he could see it while he was lying in bed at night.

Sally sat there in her apartment, wearing make-up and earrings and a low-cut dress and her best nylons, on a Friday afternoon high above bustling midtown Manhattan, thinking about Eddie Blake lying in his bed, looking at her poster, getting off.

She crossed her legs and uncrossed them, really thinking about it. He practically told her that he would look at her picture and whack off, the dirty SOB. He had big hands, Eddie did and he was a big son of a bitch, she wondered if his pecker was as big as his hands, as big as the rest of him, lying there in his bed in one of his crummy undershirts with his hand down the front of his crummy shorts, looking at her on the wall.

It looked pretty goddamn big sitting lying there asleep on his leg when he came out of the bathroom, naked.

The big bastard came strutting out of the john like he knew she was going to be eyeing him up the way a junkyard dog eyes up a nice, fresh, juicy steak.

Goddamn Larry didn't fucking look like that, naked, no he fucking well didn't.

Sally shook her head, disgusted with herself.

"What the fuck is the matter with me? What am I, some bobby-soxser with Eddie's picture on her bedroom wall? Christ!"

Then, the heavy knock on the door and she cursed herself for feeling weak in the knees as she got up and answered it.

It was Eddie, and he had a goddamn suit on, and his hair combed back with oil.

His face had healed up fast, and his teeth had stayed put.

"Hiya, Sal."

"Hiya, Eddie."

She looked both ways before she shut the door, and closed the blinds.

"I don't think anybody's gonna see us this far up in the air."

He was sitting there with his feet on her expensive table, leaning back on her expensive chair, smoking his stinky cigar and smirking, same old Eddie.

"I was gonna cook something, but then I remembered, I'm a lousy cook."

"That's okay, Sal. I ain't hungry."

The last time he had touched her, the only time he had touched her, he was brutal and rough and terrifying, and it scared her to think he was maybe some sicko, always brutal and rough and terrifying, but he wasn't.

He held her hard, and he held her fast, and he kissed her almost desperately, but there was no brutality in it.

Eddie's shoulders were broader than his suit, and she could feel the muscles in his back and his arms through the fabric. And although he had washed and washed and washed she could still smell him, cigar smoke and beer and sweat, honest sweat.

He felt like a man should feel, smelled like a man should smell, and she could feel the heat rising into her face.

"Jesus, Eddie, what a fuckin' man you are." She told him.

He didn't say anything but he had this look on his face, this very un-Eddie sort of look.

They had both worn complicated clothes and wished they hadn't, because they had to be removed carefully.

Eddie was so careful, very careful as he laid her down on the bed with its usually cold sheets and he still had that very un-Eddie look on his face when he said what he said.

"I'm sorry I hurt ya, Sal. I love you, ya know that, don'tcha?"

"Say it, again."

"I love you."

"Show me, Eddie. Show me all the ways."

***

They did end up having dinner, later, much later, Eddie went into the kitchen and cooked something and they didn't even get dressed to eat and ended up back in bed.

He was relentless, and inexhaustible, built like a bull and hung like a stallion, and he was very, very good and she liked it, so much she was ashamed how much she liked it.

"Ya want me to stay, tonight?"

What the hell am I doing, naked in bed with Eddie Blake, lying here with my head on his chest and his arms around me, after what he tried to do to me? What right does he have, after what he tried to do to me to be so goddamn good in the sack, to make dinner for me, to ask if I want him to spend the night?

My own husband never told me he loved me, and I sure as hell don't love him.

"That would be nice, Eddie. Nobody else does. I'm a dirty fuckin' whore, yunno. I sleep with other men alla time. Not here. In hotels. I make 'em go out and buy rubbers cos I don't trust 'em, my fans, and when I'm done, I leave."

She felt Eddie shrug.

"So? I do the same thing. But with broads. I mean, that prick you married, it's obvious he wouldn't have a cock unless he bought a fuckin' rooster. And when ya got people pantin' after you and they want it, they want it bad, they want it alla time, whaddya gonna do? Be like fuckin' Superman and light and a candle inna church an' pray for deliverance, or take cold showers or whatever he does? I wouldn't touch the kinda broads who run after me without a rubber, that's for fuckin' sure. And I sure wouldn't bring 'em into my house. I got kids livin' there, yunno? Except I gotta place uptown where I take 'em. You oughta look into it. It's cheaper than always goin' to hotels." He replied.

Sally laughed.

"You gotta funny way of seein' things, Eddie."

"I see things the way they really are. The funny thing is the way everybody else sees 'em. You oughtta getta divorce, an just go enjoy your life. Ya only live once, Sal, and you're dead a long time."

"So, I guess you still got your brothers and sister at home."

"Not all of 'em. Ruth's a teacher now, at PS 142. This is her first year. She left right after the war. Mickey moved out this year, he became a cop. In the neighborhood, in Bensonhurst. He don't live too far away. Jimmy's probably goin' to college, he's still in high school, an' he's still at home. So's Ellie. She's only in the seventh grade."

"Eddie Blake, family man. What about your older sisters?"

"They're still with the Russian. He never married either of 'em, but, hey, who gives a fuck, right? As long as they're all saying on the straight and narrow. Edie's pregnant this year with their first kid, Aggie tells me next year it's her turn. Soon, I'm gonna be Uncle Eddie. Everybody's happy."

"You did good, Eddie."

"I did the best I could, considerin' the way we came up. None of us went to jail. None of us is a piece of shit criminal. None of us ended up in the bughouse."

"Like I said, you did good, Eddie."

"Yeah. I guess I did."

***

Eddie rallied for one more encore in the morning, and he made one more meal for her, and then he put his suit back on.

He lingered as long as he could, and then, around noon, he left.

"Hey, don't be a stranger for the next eight years, Eddie. Call me, okay?"

"Sure, Sal. I'll callya."

He opened the door, he kissed her goodbye and he was gone.

Sally Jupiter closed the door, and for the first time she counted up how many times she and Eddie went at it, and she realised she didn't have her diaphragm in, and she didn't make Eddie wear a rubber, she trusted him.

Even before the curse didn't come at the end of the month, even before she started whoopsing her cookies every morning, even before her waistline started to thicken and the doctor told her to stop smoking and quit drinking for a few months, she was going to be a mother, Sally knew.

Eddie came to her retirement party, despite the dirty looks, and there was a picture of that party that said it all.

Sally was standing up, her belly sticking out in front of her, and Eddie sat beside her, looking at her with a proud smirk on his face and his smouldering stogie in his mouth, with Larry on Sally's other side, looking pissed-off as Sally ignored him.

They had a few moments before everybody left, just a few moments of Eddie in his mask and his frayed fatigue pants and his army undershirt, a moment where he put his big hand on her big belly.

"So, I guess I did that, huh, Sal?"

"Well, it sure as fuck wasn't Larry."

"Whaddya wanna do? Y'wanna ditch pencil-dick, and move in with me an' the kids?"

Sally wanted to say yes.

She really did.

But that thing he did, that terrible, unforgivable thing, she could forget about it for a day.

And she could live with Eddie and his werewolf ways, half-man and half-beast for a day, but for years?

For a lifetime?

"I got it covered, Eddie." She said.

"Yeah, I thought so. It's prob'ly for the best. I mean, the kids, after what they came up with, I'm not so bad. They got a house and a dog and clean clothes and food on the table and whatever else they gotta have. I never hit 'em with my fist, or with my hands, even. The old wooden spoon for when they get outa line. But they all smoke, and they all curse, and they're a pretty rowdy bunch, even the girls. I'm alright, but I ain't no Father of the Year. Kid's better off without me." He said.

"It's not that, Eddie. It's me. You and me, if we lived together…I dunno."

"Yeah, I know, Sal. Hey, don't be a stranger. Call me, okay?"

"I will, Eddie. I will. I promise."

"Hey Sal?"

`"Yeah, Eddie?"

"Ya know I still love you, right?"

He still had his hand on her belly.

"Yeah, Eddie. I know."

Sally put her hand over his hand, and smiled.

"She's gonna be just like us when she grows up." Sally promised.

**New York City, 1974**

**II: Eddie**

The Comedian was pretty sure that in this latest bout of troubles, Liv had really learned her lesson.

In the eight years since she put on a mask she'd been beaten up and shot and stabbed, totaled cars and broken bones, but she never came so close to dying as she did this time.

Kids her age, it never occurred to them that they could die, until it they came really close to it.

Liv had been killing other people since she was eleven years old, and she thought she never gave a shit if somebody turned around and killed her, and she didn't think about the future because she never expected to have one.

And the kid did seem to have nine lives. So it probably rattled her even more that after surviving an attack by a whacko sex freak murderer, jumping out of an airship into a suicide riot, getting shot six times and stabbed ten times and totaling three cars and innumerable fender-bender, bar fights, street brawls and the rest of it, the thing that nearly brought her down was falling on the knife of a scared kid and an ordinary Friday night bar brawl.

So, there she was, sitting quietly on the can, in her panties, with her arm above her head, watching him change the dressing on the wound that had almost killed her, sitting there and realizing that she was as mortal as anybody else and as desperate to live as anybody else, and looking at maybe another sixty or seventy years of life she hadn't counted on.

Thinking that if she was going to spend any of it with a mask on, she had better get fucking serious about doing it.

"How's it look, Eddie?"

"Good, kid. Good. It ain't drainin', anymore. Is it startin to itch?"

"Like a motherfucker."

"That means it's healin'. Put your clothes on."

"Jesus, Eddie, I don't want to put my clothes on."

He had been waiting for that.

If you're a sick motherfucker, killing makes you horny.

But facing your own mortality is a whole hell of a lot more potent than the Spanish Fly.

And Liv was the horniest broad he ever met before she looked death in the eye.

"The doctor said not till you're healed, kid."

"But I am healed, Eddie. Jesus Eddie, I…I…"

The Comedian looked at himself in the mirror.

Don't be a sick bastard, Eddie, don't make her say it. How much fucking mortality can one 25-year old kid take in one day?

Unless you want to start flapping your jaws about it, you fuck. Lotta good it did you the last time. But it was still easier to say when you were shooting the moon, wasn't it?

Turn around, you cowardly old Devil, you rotten hellbound motherfucker, and say it to somebody who's face you're gonna see age, who's hair your gonna see get turn grey. Say it to the last face you're ever gonna see in your miserable life.

Say it to your partner Eddie. Say it to the woman who's gonna push your wheelchair and hold your hand while you're dying, if you make it that far, and if you don't, who's gonna make the streets run red with blood. She'll kill the man who killed you, and everyone he loves and everyone he knows, and everyone who looks like him.

You wanna make her say it?

Say it to her.

The Comedian turned around.

Liv was laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"The joke's on us, Eddie. It really is."

She started laughing again, and it wasn't a normal laugh.

"I feel terrible. I don't know why I'm laughing."

"It's okay, kid. If everything goes right, I oughta be around for another thirty years. By then you'll be old, you'll be used to livin'. And in five years you'll be too old to die young and have people talk nice about what a shame it was at your funeral. That's just the way it is. Death ain't sexy."

Liv stopped laughing and she started to cry.

That was good.

Eddie had never seen her cry.

"Go away, Eddie! Go away, I'm cryin'! I'm cryin'!"

"Finally! Jesus, kid, you even had me thinkin' ya had no feelings."

"I don't have no feelings!"

"Sure ya do. You're cryin', aintcha? You wanna live, don'tcha? Everybody's got feelings, kid. Just because you're a bastard it don't mean you got no feelings. I wish to God it did."

The kid wiped off her eyes with toilet paper, and tried to stop crying, but it was no use. The dam broke, and she really started to keen and wail.

It made Eddie good and goddamn mad.

He knelt down beside her on the tile and he hugged her, and the poor kid cried, and cried, and hung onto him like she didn't have anybody else in the whole goddamn world.

Those lousy, rotten, no-good motherfuckers.

For how many years had those sanctimonious motherfuckers poisoned her mind and told her she wasn't normal, she was a psycho, she had no feelings? They thought he was a human garbage dump and they dumped her on him like she was so much trash.

Not the Bat, his reasons were different, but the rest of them, they looked at the name on her birth certificate and held their noses.

Your father was a piece of shit criminal bastard. A psycho. And you? You wanna be something different? Something better? A hero? The fuck you are! You're going to grow up to be a piece of trash just like your old man, you monster, you inhuman monster, get the fuck away from us. Go over there with that dirty motherfucker Eddie Blake. His father was a piece of shit criminal bastard, too. The Comedian, he's a bad man. He killed his father. He tried to rape America's Sweetheart. He shot the king of our new Camelot in the head, right in front of his wife and everybody else in America. And he did terrible things in all our wars. Especially the last one. He works for the government. God knows what he does for them. Nothing like we do, when we work for them.

You're trash, like he is. Feelings? You got no feelings. You're not even human. You go over there with him, you trash, you garbage, you little fucking sewer rat from Brooklyn. Like goes with like, you two go swim in the sewer together.

It wasn't until Eddie found himself shouting that they all deserved to die from doing to her what they did to him that the Comedian realized he hadn't been thinking all those things to himself; he'd been saying them out loud.

"But Eddie, your father was a horrible excuse for a man, and Sally forgave you and you won those goddamn wars for this goddamn country, especially the last one, and with Nixon in the White House, somebody has to mind the store so the whole country doesn't go down the shitter. Sure, you shot the wrong guy, but if you hadn't, they woulda got somebody else and you'd be dead, too. And ordinary people, on the Left and on the Right, old people and kids, college students and dockworkers, they love you. Jesus, Eddie, whether they wanna admit it or not, they know, you are America." Liv said, her voice still shaky from crying.

"I know that, kid. Like they say, that's my cross to bear."

"It's mine too, Eddie. I'm your goddamn partner."

The Comedian looked at the little red-haired girl sitting on the john with her eyes puffy from tears she hadn't cried since the first time she killed a man when she was an eleven year old kid in overalls and Keds and pigtails, there in her orange cotton panties with blue VW Beetles on them and a hole in the elastic in the back, and his face just cracked into just about the most diabolical smile he'd ever managed.

That beat the hell out of "I love you," any day of the goddamn week.

"Goddamn right you are. Ya feel better, now?"

"Yeah, I do. But, honestly my side still hurts me a little. But I still don't wanna put my clothes on. I wanna take what I got on, off."

"Yeah, me too. I won't hurt your side. I been at this since before you were born. I know what I'm doin. Wash your face, and come ta bed."

***

When Liv got in bed, Eddie was still getting undressed; he was taking off his costume, and watching him get undressed, seeing him naked, it made that old familiar dull thrill of lust go through her, but there was something odd at the top of it, something high and sharp and frail that ripped that heavy curtain of dumb lust to ribbons.

And what it let in was a whole different kind of lust, and it was a million times more powerful than even when she'd gone five weeks without it in the bush up in the Great White North when Logan came and rescued her from her own insanity, and it was worse than the lust that almost drove her to murder Eddie because she couldn't have him, it was almost a sick, terrible feeling that made everything crystal fucking clear, from the minute she jumped out of the Owlship, right up to right now.

And before she could keep her mouth from moving the words just sprang out.

"Jesus, Eddie, I figured out what the fuck's been at me since I met you! I'm in love with youse, ya son of a bitch."

Eddie got into bed like he did every night.

He shut out the light.

"Yeah, kid. I know that."

Liv sat up.

"Whaddya mean, you know that?"

"I mean, I know that. Ya didn't have to say it. It don't change nothin'. But, yeah, I know that."

"Well, I don't give a shit if you don't."

Eddie sat up, too, and put the light back on.

"Whaddya mean, I don't? I spent the last goddamn three years of my life tryin' to save your ass after they just gave you to me and threw up their hands, and I put up with you breakin' my nose and smackin' me around an' puttin' a gun to my fuckin' head and I gotcha sobered up so ya only drink like a normal person and I taughtcha everything I know and I made you my goddamn partner and toleja every goddamn thing about me an' I even saved ya when youse was bleeding to death in my kitchen an' I been lookin' after ya ever since and ya think I don't fuckin' love you? Jesus, why the fuck else would I care? Cos you were a girl? I fucked a lotta girls, kid. I still do. They don't get that kinda treatment from me." He yelled.

"Jeez, Eddie, I guess you're right. I know that, too."

He turned the light off, and rolled over, muttering to himself.

"Are you just gonna go to sleep?"

"Yeah. The doctor says wait till you're healed, anyway."

Liv swallowed the long stream of expletives she had wanted to utter and resisted the urge she had to smack him in the head, and, instead, she darted under the blankets.

Something she'd much rather do, anyway, it wasn't a chore for Liv, she liked it.

A lot.

Although he had been half-asleep, the Comedian woke up in a hurry.

She had him there.

He had to admit, as a man who had been on the receiving end of a whole lot of blowjobs from a whole lot of broads in his life, Liv was the absolute, world-champion, hands-down best.

It was enough to make a grown man cry.

The low, rumbling moan that escape his lips only encouraged her.

He was pulling her hair a little, but Liv didn't care, she figured she always pulled his hair a little too.

"Now that's what I call asking nice." He managed to gasp.

***

The Comedian had an extremely late night, involving about ten beers, several whiskies, and three cocktail waitresses, so the last thing he wanted was to be awakened at six in the morning by his cleaning lady vaccuming his apartment.

His head throbbing, he pulled on his robe and made his way out of the bedroom.

"Will you hold the goddamn carpet sweeper? What the fuck are you trying to do, kill me?"

The cleaning woman, who just happened to be the Comedian's sister, Edie, wasn't going to take any shit from him.

Especially not after what she'd been through that morning.

She turned off the Hoover.

"You do a good job of that, yourself. You've still got your mask on, for Chrissakes! Jesus, Eddie, you're fuckin' crazy! You always been fuckin' crazy! Thirty fuckin' years old and I came in here and found ya in the middle of the day with your mask on, naked, with two girls, botha them naked, bottle on the table, a reefer in your hand, listenin' rock and roll music. Now what are ya, fifty? I can still smell the reefer. And there's a Rolling Stones record and an' empty bottle on the table. But that ain't all. Take a look."

Eddie looked.

One of his guns, and his wallet, and his checkbook.

"So?"

"So! I'll give ya so! When I came in here a couple of cupcakes were trying to make off with those while the third was tryin' ta unplug your TV. I got rid of 'em. It wasn't easy. And you say the kid has no sense. You know what your problem is, Eddie?"

"Yunno what, Edie? I got a feeling you're gonna tell me."

"I sure am. You gotta bad temper and you think with your dick. Those are the only things you got in common with Pop, but you've fucked yourself pretty good with both. You coulda hadda nice life with Sally, but, you was thinkin' with your dick. That's how come you and Liv get along so well. She's got a worse temper than you, and she thinks with her pussy. Smart kid like her, too. At least you gotta excuse, Eddie, you're a fuckin' dummy who never got past the seventh grade. I just hope you don't manage to fuck things up with her, too. You piss that girl off enough, she'll fuckin' killya, and me, I'll go laugh at your fuckin' tombstone. " Edie snapped.

"Hey, Edie, who pissed in your Corn Flakes this morning?" The Comedian asked.

"Those three bitches, that's who! You think the first thing I wanna do in the morning is get into a big fight? You think with your dick, and I gotta clean up after you. Literally."

"Awww, I was drunk. And it's not like I do it every day. Every once in awahile, ya gotta have a good time, in this fuckin' life."

"Yeah, great habits you're teachin' Liv. Well, when ya do hafta get crazy, lock up the dough and the guns, huh? You wanna sleep it off? Go someplace else. I got another place to clean at noon."

The Comedian had the idea that his sister was worried about something, really worried, but he figured she'd tell him, eventually.

He took a shower, trying to wake up, and finding himself still fairly woozy, tired and hung-over, threw on his clothes and decided to drive to Wayne Manor, hoping the kid would still be in bed.

He hadn't seen hide nor hair of her for a week, and that wasn't like the kid, at all.

She was probably working pretty hard to make up for missing time, and being on her ass, but still.

The kid had her own wing of the mansion, and there was a side door that she gave Eddie a key to.

He quietly let himself in, and when he got to her bedroom, he found it was empty and her bed had not been slept in.

Now one thing he knew about Liv, she always came home to bed, no matter where she went or who she was with. He was one of only two men she ever trusted enough to lie down beside and go to sleep with, and there was no motorcycle in her driveway, so Eddie knew that Logan wasn't around.

If she wasn't at the apartment, or here, or in the room over Trivelino Mac's there was only one other place she could be.

The Doc's lab, in Washington.

He got on her phone and called John McClatchey and he said neither him or Joe had seen Liv for quite some time. So Eddie phoned the Doc's and got a receptionist, who routed him back to the Doc's apartment, where nobody answered, so he went down into Liv's bunker where she had this row of buttons that signaled the Doc to transport her places.

He pushed the one next to "Laurie's apartment", and which a flash and a whoosh, found himself there.

The racket awoke his little girl, who liked being awakened before eight as much as her father did.

She stormed out of the bedroom in a tee shirt and panties and screamed as Eddie immediately turned his head away.

"What the fuck is this? What are you doing here? Don't you know I work nights? You fuckin' asshole, you asked for it and I'm gonna kick your ass all over this room!" Laurie yelled.

"Willya put some clothes on, for Chrissake? Go ahead, take your best shot, but put some fuckin' clothes on. It ain't decent! Jesus!"

Laurie stormed back into the bedroom, put on a pair of jeans and came back out.

The Comedian had both hands over his eyes like he was playing hide-and-go-seek, and she really felt like smashing him one, but she decided it wouldn't be fair.

"I'm dressed. Since when do you give a shit about decency?"

"Hey kid, yunno, with me and your mother havin' a history, it ain't right? I'm just tryin' to find out where Liv is? She's just gettin' better, what's she doin workin' at this hour?"

"How the fuck should I know? She and Jon have been at the lab for seven days, straight! Seven goddamn days, and he hasn't come home, once! What the fuck are they doing?" Laurie seethed.

Eddie had to laugh.

"Are you fucking laughing at me, you old bastard?"

"Yeah, I am. What, you think Liv's takin' a pony ride on the big blue pole? I don't think there's much chancea that."

"Well, what do you think? I mean what the fuck are they doing there for three fucking days?"

Eddie seriously thought about what he had jokingly said, and he saw red.

The kid running around with her groupies, here and there, and that Joe Mac the grease monkey and shit like that, and his old army buddy, it didn't bother Eddie, but her and a guy he worked with?

His little girl's old man?

The Doc?

That blue bastard, did he really have the balls to cheat on Eddie Blake's daughter with Eddie Blake's partner?

Laurie was surprised when the usual smirk faded off the Comedian's face, and very briefly, before it registered rage, he looked hurt, like the very idea that Liv and Jon would betray him that way hurt him more deeply than she had been willing to give him credit for.

He didn't have his mask on, or his costume, and for a minute he was just a big tough guy in work pants and an undershirt, going from all to pieces to preternaturally angry over the idea that a man he trusted with her had been fucking around with his woman.

"Son-of- a- bitch! I'll kill 'im! I'll fuckin' tear him limb from limb! Wait, that won't work. The Doc can't die."

"You wanna bet? You never know what you can do until you try. Let's go. This way."

Laurie stormed out of the apartment.

"That's Daddy's little girl." The Comedian muttered to himself and followed her.

**III: Jon**

Liv had been in her office at the lab for about seven days straight.

She came out occasionally to get food and visit the bathroom, but she unplugged her phone and asked that no one come in and speak to her.

She worked almost all around the clock, Jon knew, because he spent the whole week in the lab, working on his projects, keeping an eye on her.

She had requisitioned a bed and ended up with a regulation cheap uncomfortable army cot, complete with a pillow that was carved out of rocks and the matching blanket made from sandpaper.

She usually fell asleep around three or four, but then she was up again at eight, looking for donuts and bagels with cream cheese, coffee and orange juice and a new day of work.

"Can't stop now, Jon. I'll lose my insight. Can't stop now. Almost got it figured out. Less than six months left. Gotta get started. Wasted too much time, already."

It was as if she wasn't really there at all, when she looked at you, she looked through you, still mumbling a combination of profanity and profundity, dropping papers and bringing books and files and equipment in and out of her office.

He wanted to be there at the precise moment when all of Liv's work came to fruition.

Could it be that he was…excited?

It was dawn on the seventh day when she asked him to come into her office, and asked the doctor a question that even he could not have anticipated.

"Jon, what is it like inside a black hole?" she asked.

Dr. Manhattan blinked.

He had a suspicion, considering some of the books going in and out of Liv's office and the odd paper that fell from her notebooks that she was doing space-time research, but this question was beyond even what he suspected.

"I'm not sure, Liv. I've never been inside a black hole."

"Why not?"

It was a simple question, but one to which Dr. Manhattan had no answer.

"I'm not sure. I suppose the necessity of visiting a black hole never arose." He replied.

"Well, it just did. No one else but you can go. And I've figured all of this out empirically and intellectually, but I need to know exactly what the conditions are in the center of a black hole. Actually, if would help if you could go all the way through and emerge from the white hole on the other side…where's that paper…what I'm looking for is the exact conditions at the point where matter and antimatter meet." She told him.

"In what way?"

"Fuck! Don't play mind games with me, Jon. In a physical way. In a visceral way."

She sat back in her chair, a cosmic look in her eye.

"I would also like to know what dark matter is made up of, but I don't think even you know that."

"What do you think dark matter is made up of?"

"The absence of space. I know that sounds fuckin' ridiculous, but maybe the mass of the universe that is missing is just…missing. Until someone can come up with a better theory, I'll stick to mine. So, are you going to go?"

"To the nearest black hole? Now?"

"No, not now. Not right now."

"Only if you let me in on the project. I don't want credit for your findings. I'm just curious."

Liv leaned across the table.

"When I was in college, I fucked around with the idea of a time-space suit. The way I had it figured, if it was possible for you to re-organise your physical properties at the molecular and subatomic levels, then, it might be possible to duplicate those results. Duplicate and then modify. Of course, the kicker is, how to get the effect without having to fuckin' vaporise myself. Because there's no guarantee that I could do what you've done. That's when I got the idea of constructing a suit- a space time suit- that had the same sub-atomic and molecular properties as your current physical configuration does. I've finally got it all worked out on paper, but if I want to do this fucker, I need some real-world data. I already know what you're thinkin', Jon. I must be nuts if I wanna mass produce time-space suits, but I don't wanna mass-produce them. I may want to publish my purely theoretical findings, write something up on that end of the work, but I don't want anyone to know it exists. Just you, and me. We'll build the fucker, if we can, test it, and...see what happens. If the world isn't, I dunno and all that Sci-Fi shit, ready for such a discovery, you can take it off into space after I die. I'm not concerned with whether or not the world is ready. This isn't about the world, it's about me. I'm ready."

Jon sat back in the chair for a few moments, thinking.

"It's going to take us the better part of ten years to even get a testable prototype."

"I know. But what are we really doing in this place? Jacking off. Fucking around. We can do this government monkey shit work in our sleep. Leaves us plenty of time for something important. I mean even if we just publish the theory, it will be a great fuckin' leap forward in people's understanding of the universe. With the world being the way it is, they need it. If they could all see the universe the way we do, they wouldn't feel so bad, knowing that they could all be vaporised in a matter of seconds."

Jon thought about it.

Of all the scientists he had ever worked with, Liv Napier came the closest to understanding the way he perceived the universe. It was just like her to come up with the idea for a space-time suit. That would enable the wearer to travel through space and time within one universe, but also between parallel universes. The potential for such a creation to be abused and misused by mankind was horrendous.

Yet Jon knew that Liv would be as good as her word and that she would never share her findings with anyone. Except perhaps the Comedian. But you could count on both of them to be indifferent to the promises and the needs of mankind.

The secret would be safe with her.

The research would be fascinating, the task even more so.

There was only one thing he needed to know

"Liv, why do you want a time-space suit?" Jon asked.

"I wanna go into a black hole. Witness the births and deaths of stars. I wanna see the meteor that killed the dinosaurs, and watch the French Revolution devour its own children. When I was a kid, my father used to tell me about the beauty and poetry of chaos and disorder. That was one of the reasons I studied evolutionary biology and quantum physics. I remember the Old Man saying that he read in a book that the universe and everything in it was constantly striving to move as far away from everything else as possible. He used to say, "Think of it, Livvie. Every particle, every atom, every tiny thing is in a process of constant, inexorable progress towards chaos. If the scientists are right about that, and that the entire universe is striving towards disorder, then chaos is God." Think about that, Jon. If entropy is the driving force in the universe, then Chaos is God. I'm my father's daughter. I embrace chaos and disorder. But I don't just wanna see it on Earth, the way the Old Man sees it and the way Eddie sees it. I want to see the forces of entropy that move the universe, in the impossible and vast dark heart of a tiny black hole, where time stops and matter meets antimatter. That's where all life came from. That's where all life's going to. That's how, after it ends, it will all begin again. That's the cosmic joke. God's joke. And I'd like to go and have a laugh with Him."

Dr. Manhattan sat back in his chair and pondered the words of his fellow scientist.

"Liv, I think you have an understanding of the universe that in some ways exceeds my own. I have never met another being with whom I could share my understanding of the universe, either on an intellectual level, or otherwise. That is, I thought I hadn't. How would you like to team up with an accidental demigod, and unlock the mysteries of the universe? After all the worst things that could happen to us is that we may lose our humanity and our sanity, and, well, that doesn't affect you and I, does it?" he replied.

"Jon, did you just make a joke?" Liv laughed.

"I think I did. Well?"

"What the fuck? I'll do it." She agreed.

"I have a few things to tie up, and then I'll visit the nearest black hole, and we can begin. May I read your notes?"

"Just don't take them out of this room, Doc. These are the keys for the file cabinet, and this key opens all the desk drawers except the bottom left. I value my humanity, so I'm not going with you into a black hole. If you value your sanity, Jon, don't look in that drawer."

She seemed incredibly serious.

"Are we talking Elder Gods and Necronomicon?"

"That is not Dead which can Eternal lie. And with Strange Aeons, even Death may Die. Stay out of the bottom drawer, Jon."

Liv got up and walked out of the office and Dr. Manhattan followed.

"I don't need these keys to open your drawers. But I'll leave that one alone. You look tired, Liv."

"I am tired. I gotta go home. Get some sleep. I gotta call Eddie. Maybe I'll go see Eddie. And you have to go home too. You don't wanna get Laurie too mad."

"I miss her."

"Well, ain't that nice. Go ahead, I guess, zap me to Eddie's place. If he's not there I can sleep in his bed as well as I can sleep in mine."

"What if he brings one of his groupies home with him?"

"They can use the couch. On second thought, zap me into the street. It's just gettin' to be springtime, I ain't been out in so fuckin' long, I wanna take a walk. It's a nice morning."

That was when the angry pounding on the door began, and the yelling, and the cursing.

"You gotta passcode?"

"No, I don't have a goddamn passcode. Can you break it down?"

"It's a steel door. Whaddya want, Superman?"

"Maybe if we both try."

"Why the fuck not. One…two…three!"

_Smash!_

The imprints of the shoulders of the Comedian and the second Silk Spectre appeared in the door, and before they could make a second assault, Dr. Manhattan opened it.

Laurie was the first one through the door.

Jon was naked, but Jon was usually naked.

"Where's Liv? Is she naked, too? Just what the hell's been going on in here?"

Liv was standing in the doorway of her office, having a good laugh.

"What do you mean, Laurie? You don't think we were-"

"That's what we thought! I mean, it ain't just there for show, is it, Doc? And who do you think you're laughin' at, kid?"

"You, Eddie! You oughta see the look on your face! I swear, I swear on my father, the only thing goin' on here is science." Liv managed, between giggles.

Eddie stalked over to her.

"You better quit that fuckin' laughin'!"

"Or what? You gonna smack me one? Big deal. If ya wanna fight, we'll fight, it's been, what, three years since the last one? Go ahead, throw the first punch. But I don't wanna fight with you, Eddie, and I fuckin' know you don't wanna fight with me. Let's go home."

"Can't. Edie's cleanin'."

"Then we'll go to my place."

"There was nothing sexual going on here. At all. I wouldn't do a thing like that."

Dr. Manhattan was rather shocked at the accusation.

"Maybe not, Doc. But Liv would. And guys don't say no to Liv. Especially not guys who don't have anything but the air protecting their balls."

Eddie and Liv both had a laugh on that one.

"Would you still like to go back to the corner, Liv?"

"No, Jon. I'm tired. On second thoughts, I just wanna go home."

**II: Liv**

I was exhausted by the time we got to my place and Eddie looked pretty wrecked too.

I mean I didn't pass go, and I didn't collect two-hundred dollars, I just dropped my clothes onto the floor and fell into my bed.

I'd been sleeping on an army cot in my office for a couple hours a night for a week, and being in the bed was like heaven.

I wondered where the hell Eddie was, because his clothes were on the floor, but he was sitting on the end of the bed.

I went and sat beside him.

"What?" I asked.

"Tell me the truth, kid. Were you really workin' the whole time? Cos I'm gonna tell you right here, I know I don't own ya, and I never tried to. Just causa what came out the other day, I don't expect ya to turn into a nun overnight. I sure can't. Normally, I don't give a shit who you're with when you ain't with me. I mean, if I drives past here and see another bike parked outside, or somethin', I keep drivin'. All I ever ast ya is that you be straight with me. I don't gave a shit about the groupies but if somebody's gonna be sleepin' here on a regular basis, I think I gotta right ta know who I'm sharin' my partner with. But, your best friend's boyfriend? Your boss? I mean, the Doc? An' you sneaking around behind my back, and my kid's? I'm not gonna fuckin' stand for that."

Eddie really seemed hurt.

Sometimes, I forget the man has fucking feelings, just like sometimes I forget I do, too.

But we do, you know.

We are people, aren't we?

"Eddie, Jesus, Jon isn't my type. An you know the only guys I ever spend any real time with besides you is Joe Mac and Logan. I would tellya if that changed. I promised. You're may partner, ya know I'm with ya more'n anybody else. Jesus, Eddie I wouldn't do nothing ta hurt you like that. Okay?"

"You're all I got, kid. Ya know that, don'tcha? Anybody tries to fuck with that, the Doc, ten guys in a bar upstate, any fuckin' motherfucker in the world, I'll kill 'em. Kill 'em all."

I didn't hesitate to say it, either.

"You're all I got, too, Eddie. You're my partner. If you jumped out into fuckin' Hell itself, ya know I'd jump right after ya. Ya know I'd kill for ya, you seen me do it, and so help me God, I'd die for ya if I had to" I said.

And I meant it, too.

"I'd rather see you live, kid. I believe ya. C'mon, let's get some shut eye. We got work to do tonight."

***

So, I've been kicking around the idea of buying an old warehouse down by the docks, or in the Bowery to use as what the Old Man calls a to as a lair, but for right now Wayne Manor and its grounds houses both the Batcave and the Funhouse.

Yeah, I know. Harlequin, Funhouse, it's fucking corny.

Well so it Batcave , if you think about it.

I don't do much there, not compared to what Bruce does. If I ever get that warehouse together, then, well, we'll see, but right now all I got is pretty much my garage, with all my tools and machines and shit and that's where I keep all my guns and ammo.

Anyway, though, now that I got an arch-nemesis cooling his heels in the bughouse and thinking up some diabolical strategy to for when he comes out in a few months, I gotta get my shit together. Fast.

What I'd really like to do is get a place of my own, for business. Like an old warehouse. Maybe find one that has a A-Bomb bunker under it. I could set up a better garage, get my own lab together. I've got some plans for what I'd like to do if I buy a place, how I want it laid out. I mean, once I build The Suit, I'd have to be crazy to keep it on government property. I'm gonna need some serious shit for my lab, there, but the Doc can pretty much get whatever he wants out of the feds, so he says he'll help me outfit it.

I mean I had a lot to do and a lot on my mind.

Which is probably why I got really pissed off when Eddie comes over in his Caddy, the new one, the '71 Fleetwood Eldorado, and he wants me to fix his brakes.

I guess his attitude is that he just saved my ass and he didn't kick me to the curb and he was looking after me after my latest bout of Troubles, and I split for a week without so much as a phone call to let him know if I was in trouble, or shit like that, so I can at least fix his brakes. I do most of the work on Eddie's cars, now. His brother Mickey used to do it, but Mickey's a cop, not a mechanic, and he fucked the cars up pretty often so Eddie had to take then someplace else, anyway.

Normally, I'm not up to much when I'm not working, or on my mask rounds, actually, but this was different. Especially while I was under the caddy and Eddie was checking over my guns like I didn't know how to keep an M-1 in good working order, I got pretty pissed and I slid out from under the car.

"Hey, Sarge give it a fuckin' rest, willya?"

"What? Which one of us was in the fuckin' Marines, me or you? Where's the Tommy gun?" he asks me.

"It's in the Wildcat. Leave it alone."

See, that was the thing that was really pissing me off.

My big project was something I'd been thinking about for a long time that I never quite got around to doing. I was trying to get my own superhero supercar together, and I got this '63 Buick Super Wildcat I've had for years and I crashed the thing a million times and it just won't die.

Drove the motherfucker from one end of North America to another, I practically lived in it one summer and it never let me down.

The goddamn things go like a bat out of hell, and they're already built like a fucking tank, but I had some plans for mine. Bulletproof glass in the windows, reinforce the grille so I can use it as a battering ram, machine gun ports, and some body work, engine work. And som psy shit too, like cameras in the headlights, shit like that. Detailing, too.

I had it all planned out and I made drawings and shit and that's what I wanted to work on.

I was in the fucking middle of it, when Eddie decides he wants me to fix his goddamn brakes.

And it's not like he listened to me when I told him to stay away from the goddamn Wildcat. I'm under the Caddy and I can hear him over there, fucking around with it.

I'm usually not too busy when I'm not at work or at the lab, so Eddie's used to me just fuckin' around a lot of the time, but I wasn't fuckin' around now, I had work to do. I guess I should have just explained to him what I was doing, showed him my plans and all, since he is my goddamn partner, but instead I came out from under the car like the devil blew hot pepper up my ass, yelling and waving the wrench around.

"Jesus, Eddie, canya quit fuckin' with my shit! I mean I'm tryna do something in here an' first you gotta come in here with this brake job shit, and then ya gotta fuck with everything in the goddamn place! I can't get nothin' fuckin' done for myself around here! Fuck!"

So I expected him to get mad, but he didn't, he just kinda smiled at me like he knew something I had no fuckin' clue about, closed the door to the Wildcat, switched his stogie from one side of his mouth to the other and laughed.

"Okay, kid. You're workin'. I get it."

So he goes and sits down and pulls this nudie magazine out of his back pocket and starts lookin' at it while I'm finishing up the brake job.

I gave him back his keys and he puts the magazine back in his pocket.

"Ya need any hardware for your project?"

"You mean like spy shit and military shit?"

"Yeah. I can get you anything you want, if ya let me see your plans."

So I showed Eddie the plans, and he said he'd get me all the shit I needed, which was pretty cool.

Then he splits, just like that.

I got the stuff like the next fuckin' day.

All the stuff.

Even the goddamn GPS system, and Bruce doesn't even have a GPS system.

It's good to be the king, yunno?

So I was workin' on the Wildcat pretty solid for the next week or so, and while I was workin on the car, I didn't do anything but work on the car. I mean all I did was eat, sleep and work.

Just like in the lab.

But I was really on a roll, and I didn't want to stop working until I was all done. That's why I'm not gonna go to with Eddie to DC, unless I can finish the car before he goes.

Six months goes faster than you think, and they might parole the big dumb motherfucker.

**II: Eddie**

There was no doubt about it, the kid was really starting to come into her own.

As time went by, he'd had to keep her on a shorter and shorter chain, but she still needed somebody told hold her leash, a fact that her latest Troubles had proved.

The kid, however, was finally staring to show some initiative towards becoming her own mask, and getting off the leash and out of the doghouse once and for all.

Then Comedian had occasion to think about all of it, in his last days in New York, before he had to leave for Washington.

This was going to be the year that he was going to take the kid with him, but she was still a little fucked up from what he hoped would be her final bout of troubles, and she said she had a lot of work to do, so she wasn't going.

She said she might make an appearance or two after work if she got done with her project, but the whole thing didn't seem to interest her much.

The whole thing didn't interest Eddie that much, either. In the past they'd actually got things done at these summits, but it had been nothing more than a big show for at least a decade, and all the comedian usually ended up doing was getting drunk and fucking groupies.

Last year, one of them gave him a dose of the clap. It wasn't as if he could go back to New York and pretend to the kid that he just all of the sudden wasn't up to it anymore, and she must have laughed at him over it for six months.

She did, however, offer to find the offending chick and knock the shit out of her.

Yeah, after three years, the kid wasn't his apprentice, anymore, she was his goddamn partner.

She'd come a long way from being a dumb kid a boiler suit who was only interested in boozing, brawling, and getting her rocks off who considered being a mask to be little more than running around town in a half-assed costume knocking the shit out of people.

At this point, the kid was ready for the big leagues, or at least he thought she was before she pulled that stupid shit again, after the first time since he'd met her.

If she hadn't pulled that, she'd be going on this trip with him.

Still, the Comedian wasn't too worried about his partner.

He knew that when you're young and crazy and full of piss, wind and excitement, running around in a costume and trying to save the world, you always fall right on your ass, at some point. And that's when you figure out what it is you really want to do.

At least that was what happened to Eddie, when he got tossed out of the Minutemen for getting a little rough with Sally Jupiter.

Liv, she had just fallen on her ass, big time, and as soon as she got off it she had really gotten to work. All of the sudden she was talking about new projects with the Doc, about buying a warehouse, and she built her own "superhero supercar" from the ground up. With him out of town getting his latest assignment together, it would be prime-time for her to get her ass in gear, once and for all.

It was alright for the kid to want him around, but not to need him. It was time for her to learn to stand on her own two feet, as a mask, and as long as he was around, she wasn't ever going to get off the leash that she was just beginning to strain against.

He had an idea of how he could help that process along, a little, but he wanted to talk to an old friend of his that he grew up with, in the old neighbourhood, to see if he agreed.

***

"Eddie! Long time no see! So, how's the costumed spook business, going?"

"Picking up. I see they got you out of the padded cell today, Jack."

The Joker waved his hand, dismissively.

"Well, sometimes I get bored with making trouble for them, and I just want to come back to my lovely suite, here and enjoy my time off. Think about the future. Speaking of which, how's our Liv? If I knew that she was hurt that badly and she was going to go out and do what she did, I would have ut her in my straitjacket and called the orderlies, myself." He reproached.

"Jack, don't look at me like that. She's your little girl, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Oh, I don't blame you, Eddie. Or Batsy. He did the right thing, turning my little devil over to the likes of you. The two of you just saved her life, didn't you? And she won't tell me the name of that bar. So heroic of her. I only wish I could get out of this place a little sooner. My little girl needs her Daddy, at a crucial moment in her life like this one. But you'll do. I trust you, Eddie. Especially if you can get the Green Jackal sprung."

"I thought you might have an idea of what to do about Liv, but spring that dumb bastard? Why? He's a sick fuck. He tried some shit with her. If he tries it again, I'll butcher him."  
"Eddie, don't get jealous. I'm sure that he was just a passing fancy. I'm locked up in here with the kid. He's way out of his league. I think he just pit on his siter's tights and knocked over that store because he couldn't think of anything else to do. Now, tell me you're not counting down the days till Moloch gets out of this place. I mean, how many countries can you overthrow and how many presidents can you shoot before it all becomes mundane? That's not why you put on a suit, any more than I became to Joker to make a few million bucks. Liv has to discover the thrill of being what she is, and figure out it's a bigger thrill than breaking the jaws of oafs in bars, any day of the week. And there's nothing like a supervillain to put that _joie de vivre_ into a superhero's life, Or vice versa. Get it?"

"You got a point there, Jack."

"I've been thinking about this for awhile. I have a lot of time to think, here. You know I feel sorry for poor Batty, all alone in his cave with his wonderful toys and no one to really use them on. We're all mad, on either side of the cape, so to speak, and we need each other to appear sane. So you and I we need to get these two kids together, Livvie and Greenie. They need each other to, as my teevee likes to tell me, be all that they can be. It just might be the beginning of a beautiful relationship."

Eddie chewed his cigar, thoughtfully.

"What if he's dangerous?"

"Greenie? Dangerous? Sure he's a big kid, and I'm sure if you rubbed him the wrong way he'd slap you into next week, but, dangerous? The kid sits here all day and moons around like a melancholy cow. He's not dangerous, but anything he pulls while you're gone will give her something to do. Herself. Without you. "

"That's a good idea. Thanks, Jack."

"Don't mention it, Eddie. And don't worry. I'm getting out, shortly. If the kid tries any shit with our Liv, I'll take care of him. Take it easy, the joke's on me, this time."

"No, no, Jack, the joke's on him." Eddie replied.

**III: Nowhere Man**

**I: Paul**

HEY! STOP RIGHT THERE, BUB!

**Logan?**

That's right. It's me.

They call me Wolverine.

I'm the best at what I do, but what I do isn't very nice.

Okay, you heard it.

So, just what the fuck am I doing here?

Plenty.

And I'm not here to slice the giant squid into sushi, or catch my old army buddy Eddie Blake when that fucking braniac Nazimandias tosses him out his window, so you can relax.

Fucking superhero, my hairy Canadian ass! Anybody who thinks a genetically engineered giant squid killing three million people is a lasting and effective nuclear deterrent should be locked up in Arkham for life.

Or better yet, tossed out a window.

Boy, by the time the kid got done with him, I'll be he wished he followed Eddie out the window, it would have been a lot easier death. Damn I almost felt sorry for the megalomaniacal bastard…

Wait.

That's not even till the next story the Harlequin tells you.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Point is, my name's been dropped here and there, but before this story goes any further, if you want to know what really happened, the Harlequin is going to have to talk about me.

Now I'm not trying to horn in on the beautiful story, and quit laughing, you in the back, or I'll make you into bacon strips, of how she and Eddie came to be partners. It's their story, and I'm a fairly peripheral character. Me, I don't know how Eddie ever got her in line. All I managed to do was keep her and her car rolling across the Great White North for a couple of months in 1970 and get her and the car back to New York in one piece, more or less, and anybody else but me wouldn't have been able to do it, and you had better believe that, bub.

Except, this time, it was very nice.

You probably already know that women love me.

Well, some women love me.

Okay, some women like having me around for a night as long as I'm gone by the time they have to leave for work in the morning. I'm not picky, what do I care? I can't figure out what it is about a short, hairy canucklehead like me that makes them go nuts, but I suppose it's my wit and charm.

No questions about my inside leg measurements, thanks.

You're some nosy fuckers, ain't ya?

Or maybe Eddie's right about women liking the costume.

Anyway, getting serious for a minute, there's not many men who have loved and lost as much as I have. Every time I fall in love with a woman, she ends up dead. Now, I can't stop myself falling in love with women. And I can't seem to keep them from dying.

Of course, then, I met the great love of my life, a girl named Jeannie.

We're good friends.

Just good friends.

So, you might imagine it was nice for me to run into a woman that I think could probably give even that rat bastard Sabretooth a run for his money. I'm not saying she could kill him, but I'm pretty sure she'd be able to damage the motherfucker bad enough to laugh at him a little before she took her time walking away.

I sure as fuck don't have to lie awake at night wondering if somebody's gonna kill Liv Napier. Not even when Eddie's off doing his black ops. The kid's fucking lethal.

Now, I'm not gonna say it was love that brought me and Liv together in that dive in British Columbia when we were both down and out and she was doing bare knuckle fights in Army-issue undershirts and boxers to make enough money to live, but we became friends.

Not just good friends, if you get my meaning.

Hey, I'm droppin' hints all over the place, bub.

If you want details, use your imagination.

You better have one hell of a fuckin' imagination.

Now, I don't have a whole lot of real good friends, funny enough. And when I meet somebody who's read a few books, and likes to ride and have a few beers and a good time and doesn't mind if there's a little dirt and a fight or two involved, I like to keep in touch.

And when that person is a woman, a red-haired woman, a red-haired woman whose hair is red with the hellfire the Devil forged her in, I can't help it, I'm just a man and I'm coming back for more no matter what the Justice League has to say about fraternising.

They never said anything, before.

I think they made that rule up after that thing in '72 at that bar near Arkham, the one where the kid almost bought the farm.

Yeah, while she was sick, Eddie and I got together and we went up there and found the guys who pounded that knife deeper into her body and we did to them what we used to do to Nazis back in double-U double-U eye eye.

Shit.

Fuck.

Forget I said that.

No, that was 69. '72 was something different. Someplace in the city. Anyway, some pussy who couldn't take a punch when he started the whole thing made a big stink and even though Liv had been on her best behaviour for a goddamn year, all of the sudden it didn't look right for a member of the X-Men to be "fraternizing" with a trainee of the Justice League in public.

I still remember how the Bat tried so hard not to laugh when Liv stood there and asked Superman to define precisely what he meant by fraternize.

Eddie laughed. He laughed his ass off, and he told Clark that every army on the Earth and every angel in Heaven and demon in Hell wasn't going to stop Liv from fraternizing with men, and pointed out to Supes that he tried to stop the two of them fraternising and that they had just got done fraternizing before they came to the meeting.

He kept saying fraternizing, too.

Everybody in the whole goddamn room was trying not to laugh.

Good old Eddie. He thinks life is all a big joke. That's a little sick, but the man's done some pretty bad things, and he he's had some pretty bad things done to him, and trust me, when your life goes like that, you have to find some way to rationalise it.

He thinks my recurring appearances in his partner's life are funny.

Always liked his sense of humor.

So now, if I even wanna have a goddamn beer with my good friend Liv, we have to do it in secret.

Pisses me off. I know that Clark is just desperately trying to rehabilitate Liv's reputation so that every time people hear "Harlequin" they don't think "mad, bad and dangerous to know", but that's probably what people think when they hear my name and it hasn't hurt my career, bub.

I even went and asked Cap and Iron Man if they'd have the kid in the Avengers and they didn't seem opposed to that idea, or the idea of me and the kid working together, let alone being seen in public.

Tony was pretty goddamn enthusiastic about it; I think he called the kid making her offers she couldn't refuse for a month. I'd like to think it had to do with him wanting to unite both of their brilliant minds, but knowing the Invincible Iron Man as well as I do, I think he was considering some other things he could unite over a bottle of Southern Comfort on a Saturday night.

But, Liv's first loyalty is to Bruce Wayne, and therefore the Justice League, so I know she didn't take Tony up on any of his official offers, and, long story short, that's why I'm the big secret nobody's talking about.

Not like it's a big deal. I don't get to New York a lot, and usually when Liv comes upstate it's to see her Old Man, although after what happened I think I'm gonna make a point of being in that dive every Friday night, but I wouldn't even be sticking myself in here if we weren't about to get to the point where we can't tell the story anymore without my hairy ass being in it.

Okay, just so long as we're clear on that, you can find out all about Paulie, the Green Jackal and how he really dropped himself into the shit, and what happened next, just don't be surprised when I turn up.

Or anybody else.

Thanks to Paulie, things are about to get complicated.

_Author's Note: Hey! How did he get into this? If you really want to know, check out "Moonlight and Adamantium" under Comics-X-Men-Wolverine. And tune in to the next exciting chapter to find out who this Green Jackal guy is, anyway?_


	4. I'm Not Like Everybody Else

**IV: I'm Not Like Everybody Else**

**New York City, 1974**

**I: Prologue: Grossmann's Delicatessen: **

Every mask in New York ate at Grossmann's.

It was open every day, all day and all night, except for between 3AM and 5AM for cleaning and re-stocking, and the place also sold beer, cigarettes, magazines and newspapers.

Why?

Well, It could have been because the Avengers Tower and the Baxter Building and the Hall of Justice were all within a few blocks, not to mention the homes and day-jobs of many of said masks, but there had to be dozens and dozens of restaurants in the same general area, and pretty much since Max Grossman opened the place in 1938, every mask in New York ate at Grossmann's.

So it was a question as to whether it was the chicken or the egg with Big Benny Grossman. Big Benny was seven feet tall and weighed over 300 pounds, and he wasn't musclebound, but he wasn't blubbery, either, just a huge mountain of a man. Especially standing next to his father and mother, because Max was five foot four and Sadie was only five feet tall.

Other than manning the counter on the night shift at the family business, which was from 8PM to 3AM, Benny concerned himself with three things.

Masks, Monty Python and Prog Rock with masks being first and foremost.

Grossmann's was a great place for a mask-obsessive to work, and Benny's three like minded friends, Skinny, Rosie and Crazy Paulie were there almost every night

They were a proud and motley band of freaks and lifelong outcasts, and despite the fact that Liv "Napalm" Napier ran with their crowd, Crazy Paulie was their Fearless Leader.

Liv, as the other masks well knew, had more important things to do.

Of late, though, there a pall had been cast over the chaotic but cheerful scene on Grossmann's late shift.

Almost a month before, Crazy Paulie had disappeared, allegedly for a seasonal job at a ski resort upstate, and Napalm was MIA again, as a result, word had it, of a car accident in which she was not at fault.

Grossmann's just didn't seem the same without Crazy Paulie strutting around, manning his corner table with his feet slung across it when his dinner wasn't there, holding court with his friends.

Nor did and evening seem like a evening without Liv walking through the doors and everyone yelling "Napalm", especially for those masks who knew that she was sidelined by a life-threatening injury from a fight with a new supervillain, followed by an unfortunate encounter in a bar upstate.

So it was a sign of better days when the door swung open and in swaggered Liv Napier.

She looked a bit pale and drawn, but she made a bravura effort to seem as though nothing was wrong.

"NAPALM!"

"Yeah, yeah. Hey? Where the fuck is Paulie?"

It was a general question that Liv addressed to everybody, but she didn't get an answer until she sat slowly down in a chair opposite Rosie and Skinny.

"He gotta job. Upstate. At a ski resort. For the winter."

"For wages? Paulie, workin' for wages? In a place colder n' snowier than this with no masks and no delis and nothin' but wall-ta-wall spoiled rich cunts of both genders? My ass! Tony! Hey, Tony!"

Across the dining area, Tony Stark was having a midnight turkey and swiss on sourdough with a pile of papers he wasn't too interested in.

"You called, Napalm.?"

"Yeah. You still ski?"

He took the opportunity to go and sit with Liv and her friends.

Tony was of the few masks who occasionally graced Crazy Paulie's group with his presence; he enjoyed their company.

Especially Liv's and Rosie's.

"Of course. If I quit, they would take away my permit to be a spoiled rich cunt." He joked.

"You see Paulie up there at that resort?" Liv asked.

"No. But that doesn't mean he wasn't there."

Actually, the two superheroes believed the converse.

Crazy Paulie was the son of the toughest little Irish cleaning lady in Bensonhurst and a Russian immigrant who had apparently been craved out of a large block of stone on the Siberian steppes. He stood six foot three and had long, thick wavy black hair that hung down to the middle of his back, and wore either a long beard reminicent of Rasputin or a handlebar moutache, sideburns, and a pointy goatee.

If you didn't notice Paulie, he was indeed not there.

They both noticed Rosie looking into her empty plate, and quietly exchanged looks.

"He writes me letters from there, Liv. He's there." Rosie said.

"What about you Napalm? How do you feel?" Tony asked

"I'm outa bed, an' the fucker finally quit draining. Now it only hurts ta move, instead of hurtin' just to breathe. The worst part of it ain't that I can't drink until I finish these fuckin' antibiotics. I can live with that. And it ain't that I can't fight until the wound is totally healed. I can afford to miss a few drinks and a few fights. But if that goddamn doctor don't let me screw, soon, I'm gonna hold a gun to his head and make 'im say its alright. I'm goin outa my fuckin' mind! I can't even get Eddie to fuckin' touch me. Not even a little head! I mean the doctor said no fuckin, he didn't say no head, no nothin'. I mean, that's got nothin' ta do with where I'm hurt! He says if I start thrashin' around I might hurt myself. Hurt myself! If I don't get my end off soon, I'm gonna shoot myself in the fuckin head! Thanks for asking."

"May I offer my services?" Tony replied.

Skinny started to choke on his sandwich.

"What if I do bust a stitch?" Liv asked.

"You won't. I'll hold you down."

"Fine. My car or yours?"

"I walked."

They both got up.

"I'll be back in a little bit, guys." Liv said.

Iron Man and Harlequin left together.

"Jesus, he works fast." Skinny observed.

***

They got in the back of Liv's car, but it was all business.

"What do you know that I don't, Napalm?"

"I think Paulie might be at Arkham. But I want to be wrong."

"I'll look into it."

"Tony, if he's there, don't tell me till I'm better. I can't take it. I been livin' with this ever since the day I got hurt, an'…just don't tell me till I'm all healed up."

Tony Stark was surprised; Liv looked like she might cry.

"Napalm, you have to say it to somebody."

"I can't!"

"They're only words. And I won't tell a soul. I promise. What you tell me stays in this car."

"Jesus, Tony, I think, and I hope I'm wrong, I fuckin' pray to God if He'll still listen to me that I'm wrong, but I think Paulie might be the Green Jackal."

"There. Now you said it. Do you feel better?"

"No. I feel a lot worse, thank you very fucking much."

"Why? I'm sure he isn't. I'll make a few calls. And when you're all better, I'll show you the proof that you were worried over nothing. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

Liv got out of the car in a hurry.

She wasn't the best at resisting temptation.

It was a good thing, too, because the Comedian, still in his costume strolled in the door right after she and returned to her table.

Wisely, Iron Man abandoned the rest of his food for Skinny to eat and got another sandwich and went back to his original table.

Benny had a theory about his patrons Liv Napier and Eddie Blake, the original match made in Hell, and superhero partners Harlequin and Comedian.

He never missed an opportunity to test it.

In his quiet way, Benny observed that the Comedian glanced around the room, looking at all the diners for an equal amount of time, and that after Napalm turned her head to see who had come in the door she did not look back, again.

"The usual, sir?" Benny asked.

"Yeah, why not. Whatta night. Jesus Christ. I'll tell ya, Benny, I never knew how much easier it was with a partner to watch yer fuckin' back for youse until I had one and she got hurt. I'm countin' down the days, Benny. Coutin' down the fuckin' days."

Benny glanced over at the back of Napalm's head.

She didn't so much as twitch.

He got his tray, walked right past the table where Napalm was sitting and parked himself at a table across from the Nite Owl, who was obviously working and didn't want company, let alone somebody putting his wet beer bottle all over his papers.

"Hiya, Boy Scout. You mind?"

The Comedian spread his food and his elbows over as much of the table as he possibly could.

"Uhh, no, uhhh, not really. So, how is the Harlequin?"

Benny looked from Liv to the Comedian and back again as he ostensibly put some more cole slaw in the display unit.

"I'll tell you one thing, Boy Scout. She's not supposed to be up and around driving all over town yet. But she's gettin' better."

Benny sighed.

Two poker faced jokers.

Benny came from around the counter and sat down at his friends' table.

"I heard Paulie's in Canada. Logging in British Columbia." He volunteered.

"Yeah, and I heard he got a job polishin' the top of Lex Luthor's head, and now they're both havin' a chicken dinner in Jersey. Can we talk about something else?"

Benny noticed that Rosie was giving the Comedian one of her super-horny hot pants looks.

He looked back at Napalm, who was wolfing her sandwich, seemingly unconcerned.

"Rosie, don't stare. He might get the wrong idea." Skinny told her.

"I want him to get the wrong idea. I don't know what it is about that guy, bit he really turns me on. I mean more than other masks do. If he came into my booth, I'd press the button to open the glass and ask him if he wanted to be part of the show." She fairly panted.

"What about you, Liv?" Benny asked.

Liv shot the Comedian a brief derogatory look before returning to sandwich and chips demolition.

"He ain't a patch on Eddie Blake's ass." Liv replied.

"What if he hears you?" Skinny insisted.

"Fuck him. If he's gonna problem with me, he can come tell me about it."

"Oh come on, Napalm! I mean enough is too much! Everybody in this room besides me and Skinny and Rosie are masks and they all know that the Comedian is Eddie Blake and that you are the Harlequin!" Benny said.

Liv started to laugh.

"Benny, my father's the fucking Joker. Do you think they'd let me be a fucking superhero when my father's the Joker? And besides, out of seven nights a week, I spend three or four with Eddie. If he was the Comedian, I'd know about it. Go make some egg salad or something, ya read too may of those mask scandal sheets." She said.

Benny went back behind the counter, and Liv finished her food.

"I'm beat, guys. Benny, can I leave the car here? I ain't got the jam to drive home ta Long Island. I'm gonna walk back to Eddie's. I got outa bed, I went ta work, I came here. That's a big day for me as fucked up as I still am." She said.

"Sure. I'll keep an eye on it for you, and tell my Dad in the morning. G'night, Napalm. Sorry to hassle you about the whole mask thing."

"It's your thing, Benny. I don't mind. I sure hope Paulie turns up, soon. Eddie don't believe he's workin' for wages, either."

"You know Paulie. He'll come back home with fifty bucks and some crazy story about how he was a roadie for Led Zeppelin or how he was drivin a truckload of scrap metal for Magneto to practise on, or some crazy shit." Benny opined.

He watched Liv walk towards the door, bid Tony Stark goodnight, yell "g'night" to everyone assembled and begin walking slowly down the street.

Lois Lane watched her go, and she knew Clark was watching too, and most likely, so were Dan and Liv's partner.

She shouldn't be walking alone.

Lois had an idea.

"Clark!"

"What, Lois?"

"Why don't you go walk that poor girl home?"

"But the whole place is full of superheroes and I don't even know where Mr. Blake lives."

"They've been saving the world all night. All we've been doing is eating bagels and working on a story. And she knows where she's going. Is chivalry dead?"

"No. You're right, Lois. I'll be right back."

Clark Kent opened the door.

"Miss Napier! Wait! Let me walk you home…wherever that is."

Benny shook his head.

Smooth, these masks were smooth.

***

Liv waited for Clark Kent to catch up to her.

"Thanks, Clark. I could use the company."

"Let me take your knapsack. You're doing too much too fast, Liv. I can see you still have your stitches in. And your ribs aren't quite knitted."

"I'm tired of lying around in bed! The doctor said I could go back to work."

"He said for half-days. There's something really bothering you, isn't there, Liv? You always look so worried and upset. Is it about your friend, Paulie?"

"Yeah, Clark. It is. I get the feeling something really bad has happened to him. I think he's…in a lot of trouble. I just wish he would come home."

They were at the Comedian's building.

"Have you investigated it?"

"That's just it. I'm afraid of what I would find."

"Wait until you're feeling better, Liv. Whatever it is your friend has done, nothing is unforgivable as long as he wants to make amends. You'll have to face it, and do what you can to help him."

"Why is it never easy, Clark?"

"Because doing the right thing is never easy. I know that's a real cornball Superman sentiment, but it's true. I'm sure your partner will be along soon. Make sure you all Bruce and tell him where you are. You know where I am if you need me."

"Thanks, Clark."

***

Liv was just climbing into in bed when Eddie came home about fifteen minutes later.

"Where are ya kid?"

"I'm in bed. I'm waitin' on ya."

He stomped into the room, looking furious.

Liv lay back, to enjoy the show.

Watching Eddie undress was the only kick she got anymore, and when he got really mad, it got her Mojo working.

Provided he wasn't mad at her.

"That goddamn Grossman kid, what the fuck is wrong with him?"

He pushed aside the clothes in his closet and pushed the button that opened the secret panel, then he started to unstrap his armor.

"Relax, Eddie. You know how these mask watchers are. Most of them think Tony is Batman and Bruce is Iron Man. They don't know shit."

She watched him hang up the chest and torso piece of his armour and he sat down on the end of the bed to take off his boots.

"Big stupid bastard. He thinks it's all fun and games. Every piece of shit scumbag motherfucker on three continents would be beatin' my door down if they knew I was the Comedian. Some fun for me."

He had sweated through his undershirt and angrily took it off, scrunched it into a ball and tossed it across the room, before shoving his boots into the closet panel.

Liv sucked in her breath, sharply.

"You could take 'em, Eddie."

"You bet your ass I could, kid. Kill 'em all. But that's not the fuckin' point."

Now he was standing there, with sweat glistening on his broad, hairy chest, cursing and scowling and muttering murderously as he angrily jammed down the zip on his leather pants, and tossed them into the closet, too.

Liv dipped one of her hands under the blankets.

She made a little sound, and Eddie suddenly realised what was going on without him in his bed.

"Where the fuck is your other hand, you dirty little pervert?" he asked.

"Take a wild guess, Eddie. Lemme have your shorts when you take 'em down. I wanna drape them over my face while I finish jerkin' off." She said.

Liv was only half-joking.

The Comedian yanked her hand out from under the blanket.

"Will you quit that? Jesus, I'm standin' here and you're playin with yourself!" He insisted

"That turns some guys on, yunno."

"Not me."

"Eddie, youse can't lie to me about shit like that when you're naked. C'mon, Eddie, ya won't touch me cos you're afraid I'll break into a million pieces, and then ya parade around the place naked. I'm dying, heah. I know we ain't allowed to ball, cos it'll bust my stitches, but ya gotta gimme somethin'."

"What if you start thrashin' around and bust a stitch?" he asked

"You can hold me down."

"Nobody can hold you down, baby." Eddie growled.

He threw back the blankets.

"Put your legs over my shoulders, doll. I'm gonna have you for desert."

***

Liv's favourite number later, she was feeling pretty good in the afterglow, drifting off to dreamland as Eddie rolled over on his side and put his arms around her.

"You make a great hot water bottle, kid. I'm freezin' as usual in this overpriced dump. I'm gonna break that box over the thermostat and shove the pieces up that fuckin' super's ass." He complained.

Liv laughed a little.

He was asleep in a few minutes, and Liv nodded off too, feeling too good to think about the pain in her side, and for a little while, she forgot all about Paulie.

**Arkham Asylum, New York, 1970, a few weeks later**

**II: Paul**

After dealing with the various hard cases on Riker's Island, and then spending the whole morning with the likes of the Penguin, Lex Luthor and the Green Goblin, Dr. Malcolm Long was almost glad to see Patient # 00036971, the Green Jackal, otherwise known as Paul Stavrogin.

He shuffled in, his broad shoulders rounded, and his hands in front of him in the prison-issue denims as if he was shackled, even though he wasn't.

"Good morning, Paul. How are you, today?"

"I'm gettin' by, Dr. Long." Paul said, and sat down.

He brushed his long hair out of his face, and absently rubbed his goatee.

It was a villainous gesture, but that was the extent of Paul Stavorgin's supervillainy.

Paul was an eccentric young man.

A very eccentric young man.

But having unusually long hair, and a tattoo on your chest that says "Live Freaky, Die Freaky" with a crown tattooed between the two phrases didn't make you a psychotic madman.

Those were Arkham's usual clientele.

In, Dr. Long's opinion, Paul really didn't belong at Arkham, and the fact that he had barely committed an amateurish attempt at robbery in a third-rate costume didn't make him a supervillain, let alone a candidate for an institution for the criminally insane.

For one thing, he didn't have any defined psychiatric disorders. He was eccentric, but also intelligent and creative and eccentricity often came with the territory of creativity

He had some symptoms of anxiety and minor depression, and Dr. Long was concerned with the way the young man's personality seemed to have change from what his records indicated. That alone was reason enough for Dr. Long to think that Paul should be transferred, immediately.

Arkham was doing him more harm than good.

He genuinely believed that the young man had made a terrible mistake born out of boredom, and an over-reliance on what had once been his hobby of following the news about superheroes and their opponents.

True temporary insanity, for which the boy should have been sentenced to Bellevue, and then a brief period of outpatient care.

Not be thrown into the lion's mouth at Arkham.

If it had any positive effect, though, Dr. Long surmised, it was that Paul had lost all interest in supervillainy.

"Have you been having any trouble with the other inmates, lately?"

"No, sir. Mr. Napier's found out that I'm a friend of his daughter's, so he's been looking out for me."

"Paul, I get the feeling that there are things you're not telling me. I may be able to get you an early release, or get you out of this horrible place, but you have to tell me the truth."

Paul looked across the table and the slightly-overweight black man, with his kindly face, and his cardigan sweater.

He seemed like a nice man, like he really cared.

Paul resisted the urge to lean over the table, and say he'd tell him whatever he wanted to get out of this horrible place.

"I'm no rat, Doc."

"I understand that. All I want to know is how you feel."

How did Paul feel?

He felt like when de decided to become a supervillain, he must have been out of his mind.

And he felt like a real asshole for blowing his opportunity to ball the Harlequin.

Paul was an outcast, he had been an outcast all his life. He was freak and all his friends were freaks, real freaks, not fake freaks who were freaky because freaky was the style.

They were the genuine article.

The real thing.

Live Freaky, Die Freaky.

And, other than rock musicians and other creative types, superheroes, and supervillains, were the kings and queens of freakdom, and despite the fact that Paul's mother cleaned a superhero's house and that he and his friend Benny were heavily involved in all matters mask, both real and fictional, the Harlequin was the first real mask who had ever paid any attention to Paul in any way.

So what if it was sort of negative?

She wanted to make it up to him.

Shit, she asked for it.

Literally.

There she was, underneath him, with an eerie look of wild unnatural lust in her wild, unnatural eyes, panting and sweating and asking him to do it to her, and what did he do?

Nothing.

All he did was hover over her and bleed.

She was a real good-looking chick, too.

Well, the parts he could see.

Thinking about it made him realise he was a failure as a supervillain. If he was a real supervillain, he would have thrown back his head and laughed an insane laugh and said something that was both witty, and filthy and done the dirty deed.

Given it too her good, too.

Then again, failure was nothing new to Paul.

He didn't have much of an excuse for it, being a miserable, pathetic fuckup and a complete and utter failure.

It wasn't as if Paul had been deprived as a kid. The Hell's Kitchen apartment he grew up in was decent, and when he was eight and his last aunt moved out in 1956, Uncle Eddie moved to his apartment in Manhattan full-time and just gave them his house in Bensonhurst.

It was a nice place on a nice block with a yard and they had a dog and a cat and everything and his dad had a pickup truck, a Chevy from just after the war and everything was pretty cool

He was smart enough, but he had been unremarkable in school because he was just never into it. He had brains, but he only seemed to use them to outsmart himself. Paul and his best friend, Skinny, they were outcasts, but they soon got too big to beat on, so the other kids just let them be.

Crazy Paulie, they called him, and Crazy Paulie he was, the craziest kid around in town, with a strut in his step and a mad glint in his eye, letting his hair grow long and his freak flag fly.

His last haircut had been in 1965, and he reported his high school to the ACLU when they tried to get him to shave off his beard and cut his hair.

No thank you.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever, baby.

After an interesting conversation over a nine hour chess match with Magneto at the X-Mansion when Paulie was doing some odd jobs, he used to occasionally strut around Bensonhurst, and in his Uncle's swanky neighbourhood in Manhattan wearing a costume crown, telling people that he was the Freak King of New York, and that someday they would all bow before him.

He did it partly to see the looks on people's faces, and partly to prove to himself he could.

Paulie was like that.

That's why they called him Crazy Paulie.

Paulie went to college, his brother went to Vietnam, and Skinny got a job in construction, and had an accident involving some of his toes that made him 4-F.

At college, Paulie fell into the company of a few other freaks. There was Benny Grossman, who was devoted most of his life to comic books, superhero-watching, prog rock and Monty Python, and Rosie Juarez, a fellow mask-obsessive and pre-law student with a straight A average and a full scholarship who worked nights in a nudie booth in Times Square for kicks. The Harlequin, who, if you believed the tabloids, raised the pursuit of cheap thrills, fast cars, fast men and cold beer to an art form in her free time was one of Rosie's personal feminist heroines.

They were his merry band of pranksters, and he was their Fearless Leader.

Recent converts to the Way of All Freakiness, newly minted hippies and hairies and yippies and flower waifs gave them a respectful wide berth, for they were the Real Deal, the Genuine Article, proud freaks, outcasts all their lives.

Live Freaky, Die Freaky, baby.

Never surrender.

Paul got a scholarship to go to college, but only because his father, Ivan Stavrogin, a sometime garbage truck driver, had defected from Russia after having met and fallen hard for two Irish sisters, Paul's mother and his aunt.

After seeing his brother Patrick go off to 'Nam, Paul was motivated enough maintain a C average until the war was over, but after that he couldn't really motivate himself to keep it together, and failed out at the end of his junior year in 1972.

Having witness their son snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, Paul's mother, Edie, convinced Ivan, who seldom worked and never got around to marrying her even though it would have conferred citizenship on him, to get Paul a job with his company.

Ivan never got around to marrying Edie's sister Aggie, with whom he had Patrick, either.

He didn't want to make either woman jealous.

After Patrick came back from 'Nam, where he served with his uncle, he went to college on the GI Bill, and he was doing really well, making good grades and getting his life back together.

Patrick was a war hero and an honor student.

Bridget was an honor student, too.

Paul got fired from being a trash collector after six months.

Ivan quit in sympathy with his son, and went back on welfare.

It didn't bother either of them.

Paul, like his father and his Uncle, had nothing but contempt for nine to five shmucks. Like Clark Gable said in _The Misfits_, anything is better than wages. Working nine to five was for people who weren't smart enough to make money any other way, and Paulie looked at his year and a half of being unemployed as an adventure, the adventure which would culminate in him discovering what it was that he was going to do with his life.

Ivan brought in weekly under-the-table cash doing odd jobs around the neighbourhood.

Paulie was pulling down a small welfare check and food stamps, and he worked sporadically, doing even odder jobs than his father.

To Edie, his it seemed like all Paul did was listen to records, bum around, hang out with his friends in bars and coffee joints, follow the mask world, read comic books, smoke dope, run around in the streets acting like a lunatic, and screw his girlfriend, most of which she wished he wouldn't do in the house.

But he never asked her for money, and he shared his food stamps with the family so she let him alone.

Most of the time.

The family was just about used to Crazy Paulie being Crazy Paulie, but they were always looking for something constructive for him to do.

They were all sitting around the TV one night watching a rather breathless TV news segment about the Joker, when Ivan jokingly suggested his son's next career path.

"Why don't you become supervillain? You make lots of money and get on TV. All you need is name and costume."

"Are you crazy, Ivan?" Edith's sister, Aggie asked.

Aggie and Edith were the family's main breadwinners.

Aggie worked as a waitress and Edie cleaned houses. Their best customer was some superhero uptown who grew up poor in Brooklyn with no father and an Irish cleaning lady for a mother.

He paid them very generously, and gave them two or three hundred dollar bonuses and a bottle of Scotch on holidays and their birthdays. They lived fairly well, thanks to their superhero benefactor and with the help of Aggie and Edith's oldest brother.

"Paulie can't become a supervillain! A superhero puts the food on our table, and quite literally, the clothes on your lazy Bohunk back! Not with what Eddie dose for a living, are you nuts?"

Ivan shrugged.

"So? Paul don't have to fuck with Eddie. He can go be supervillain in Jersey. Paul, superhero has to register with government. Fuck government. Become supervillain."

"Ivan, what the fuck is the matter with you? This country saved your lazy Bohunk ass, and you get a check from the government every month!" Edith insisted.

"So? I'm an anarchist. Fuck government. And you both better stop with lazy Bohunk ass, or I get real lazy on both of you." Ivan replied.

"Jesus, Dad, don't talk about that shit!" Patrick said.

"What? You think you come from sky? You come from me and Aggie and your brother and sister come from me and Edith. I don't want no shame over it in my house." Ivan announced.

"Daddy, we're not ashamed of where we came from. We just don't need to hear the particulars. Hey Paul, I got a pair of green tights that are one size fits all. You oughta be green, you'll be the first Irish supervillain from Bensonhurst. Try 'em." Bridget suggested.

Bridget was in the 10th grade, and was mulling over an invitation to go to the Xavier Institute For Higher Learning. She was the family's only mutant, and, unlike in some other families, her family was proud that their little girl had a chance to be an X-Man.

Actually, they weren't too sure about Paulie, but they pretty much just thought he just took after Eddie and his mother, who were, in less gaudy ways than Paulie, pretty nuts.

Bridget was gifted with an advanced healing factor, and the ability to shapeshift into different forms to blend in with her environment, like a chameleon.

She also had a pretty mean left hook, but that was more of a family trait.

"Don't encourage your brother. You want a job, Paul? Finally? I'm glad ta hear it. Here's the want-ads. Look under "Wanted: Lazy Bum Like His Father" Edith quipped.

"You get that supervillain shit out of your mind, Paulie. You might be a grown man, but you're not too big for us to handle. Especially not your Uncle Eddie." Aggie warned.

"Paulie, you know I'm kidding, yes? You become any kind of villain, Eddie kill you, if I don't find you first. You become supervillain you better hope Eddie find you first. Okay, Edie, you win. I debase myself and embarrass family. I crawl on belly, like fucking weasel. I go back to work for piece of shit place that sack my son. Don't worry, Paulie. I try to get you job back." Ivan told him.

But Paul didn't want his job back, riding shotgun in the garbage truck with the old man. That was the last thing he wanted. He always thought he was cut out for something other than the nine to five racket, he just didn't know what it was, yet.

Like Uncle Eddie.

He hadn't ever knuckled under and become a mook.

Come to think of it, Paul wasn't quite sure what Uncle Eddie did for a living, but he wasn't a working stiff.

He wasn't a piece of shit suit, either. Every time Paul saw him he was dressed in his old fatigues or work-type clothes, like the old man. Both of them wore an undershirt pretty much all year round, and in the winter they wore work shirts over their undershirt, quilted ones when it got really cold.

Unlike Ivan, Uncle Eddie had a lot of money. A shitload of money. He lived in a big fucking swanky apartment uptown in Manhattan, and had a whole closet full of flashy suits that Paul had seldom seen him wearing.

He was fifty years old, he still had all his hair, girls Paul's age were still nuts about him, and he was in bite the bullet commando good shape.

You could punch him in the stomach with brass knuckles on, like in _From Russia With Love_ and he'd still smile before he broke your face.

He drove a tank in World War II, and in Vietnam he was some big Special Forces dude, and got Patrick on his staff, so Paul always got the idea maybe Uncle Eddie worked for the CIA or the FBI or the defense department or some kind of undercover badass government shit.

Still, Paul was very close to his Uncle Eddie. His middle name was Edward, and he had grown up to look just like his namesake. The resemblance lent itself to more than just looks. Paul didn't back his cockiness and bravado up with ultraviolence, but on the odd occasion some redneck or neighbourhood bully would try him, he could hold his own.

They were both proud men who did exactly what they wanted, when they wanted, and didn't mind taking the consequences, night owls who were disdainful of regular people and their regular hours, cagey opportunists just one step ahead of settling down and settling for less and becoming a regular Joe.

As long as he could remember, Paul had idolised his Uncle Eddie, even though they had differences of political opinion. In fact, Uncle Eddie was almost like a second Dad to him. Paul knew his Uncle was some kind of bad motherfucker, but he had already figured out that if you didn't give Uncle Eddie a reason, then he wasn't going to show you how bad he was.

Even his girlfriend was a bad motherfucker. Liv "Napalm" Napier was the toughest person Paulie ever met next to his Uncle Eddie, and certainly cut from the same mould.

Paulie always suspected her of secretly being in the mask biz, on one side of the cape or the other.

Napalm got him the X-Mansion gig.

She taught evolutionary biology there once a week, and on those days helped Wolverine teach combat.

That's how tough Napalm was.

She was in a real bad way before she met Eddie, Napalm was, she'd got to the point where if the booze didn't kill her then a car wreck or a bullet would, but nobody was tough enough to get her in line.

Nobody but Uncle Eddie.

Paulie credited himself with that match made in a polygamous Hell. He told Uncle Eddie about his friend Napalm, maybe finding her a job doing what he did and they just hit it off.

Like the rest of them, Liv was pretty smart, a lifelong freak and outcast, and worked nights.

Well, Rosie worked nights, and Benny worked nights at Grossmann's Deli around the corner from Uncle Eddie's building, but Paul was just a night owl.

When he had no work to do and nothing else, sometimes he just road around on the subway all night, scribbling story ideas in a notebook, following masks around, but most nights you could find him at the corner table at Grossmann's, back to the wall, feet on the table, smoking and crowing in his cocky bravado that he was the freakiest of them all, mask-watching and keeping Benny company.

Grossmann's Deli.

"Paul?"

"Call me Paulie, Dr. Long. And it's kind of stupid."

"Tell me, anyway."

"I had this dream last night. I dreamt I was sitting in the corner booth at Grossmann's Deli, having a pastrami sandwich on rye with swiss cheese, with my friend Skinny and Rosie. Rosie's my Old Lady, but she's one of my best friends, too. Anyway, I don't know why, but I think every superhero and half the supervillians in New York eat at Grossmann's. They do have the best corned beef in Manhattan, though. Anyway, in my dream, it was about midnight, and it was just us and Mr. Grossman's son Benny, and at a table on the other side of the room Captain America was having a sandwich with Tony Stark, and Skinny was telling me again all the reasons he thinks Tony Stark is Iron Man, and then my friend Liv, Mr. Napier's daughter, came in, and we all yelled "Napalm!" like we always do when she comes into a room cos that's her nickname, and nothing really happened, but I woke up and I felt like crying, because stuck in this place it seem to me I'll never be able to go back to my old life again, or my old self, and right now that's all I want. For this to be over, so I can get out and go back to school, maybe, and just be Paul Stavrogin, again."

Dr. Long smiled.

He reached across the table and grasped Paul's shoulder.

"That's perfectly normal, Paulie. And there's no reason you can't leave this place and go on with your life. I think this personality change in you is temporary, due to the trauma of your arrest and incarceration. But until you've faced those things about yourself that made you decided to put on those tights and that cape and do what you did, I can't help you."

Paul wanted to tell Dr, Long what he told Uncle Eddie, but he knew better than that.

Just before he started running around Bensonhurst in a pair of tights and a cape him, Liv and Uncle Eddie came into Grossman's around one in the morning, and Paul sat there with his Uncle and talked to him for two or three hours about how desperate he felt long after Liv went home.

"I dunno, Uncle Eddie. Lotta my friends went to Nam, didn't come back. Guys I went to college with who were never gonna settle down, they were gonna let their freak flag fly, they met a chick someplace. At a commune. At a rally. At the A & P. Got married. Cut their hair. Knuckled under. Well, I don't wanna. I know you can't understand why I got such long hair, but it means somethin' ta me. It means the cocksuckers haven't got me yet. Haven't got me to do what I'm supposed to do. Be what I'm supposed to be. No offence to Ma and Dad, but if I thought I hadda cut my hair and drive a garbage truck and marry some girl and have kids and live in Bensonhurst forever, Jesus, I'd slit my fuckin' wrists. Problem is, I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do with my life. All I know is what I don't wanna do. You understand, don'tcha?" Paul finally finished, as Benny was closing up for the night, at four in the morning.

"So you been sayin', all night. Sure I do, kid. Ya see me livin' in a row-house with some broad who got fat on me and fucks the milkman and one or two of our kids looks just like him? At least you're smaert enough to know it's a fuckin' trap and that ya don't wanna fall into it. That's' half the battle, Paulie. But, it's been almost two years since ya flunked outa school. How many fuckin' shopping days do ya think you're gonna get before Christmas? My life kinda chose me, I didn't choose it. But you, ya can do anything ya want to, kid. Not like when I was a kid, I didn't have no choices and no opportunities. Why dontcha go back to college? So ya lost your scholarship, so what? I can getcha a new one. I can getcha ten fuckin' scholarships. Or get a fuckin' job, someplace. Nothin' serous. Just somethin' ta do to make a little dough while ya try to figure out whatcha gonna do. Liv, she knows a guy around here has a garage. Guy named Joe. He'll hire ya. You can still work nights. Shit, go out and buy a musical fuckin' instrument, join a band. Musicians always work nights. Send somea them stories ya wrote to a magazine. Ya can work at night and write during the day. Or ya can work here. Ya sit here all night, anyway, ask Max to give you a job helpin' Benny. Do somethin'. Just as long as it's on the up and up. Cos if ya don't so somethin' soon, you'tre gonna start pickin' up some bad habits. When ya don't know what to do with yourself an ya got alla time in the world, that's whenya get your ass into trouble. You'll get desperate ta bust out, and you'll take the wrong way."

That was good advice, and sitting in Arkham completely screwed, Paul realised it just hwo good it had been.

Everything Uncle Eddie said to him that night made a whole helluva lot of sense to him now.

Something on the up and up.

Uncle Eddie wouldn't be too happy if his nephew was a supervillain.

Nobody was really serious about the idea, not even Ivan, and none of the family though that Paul was, either.

But he got to liking the whole supervillian idea.

He had spent most of his life engrossed in the world of masks, why not join it?

Supervillains were all pretty freaky.

Why not get paid to be freaky?

Besides, if Magneto did take over the world, someday, and when that happened, if Paul was going to be made King of New York, ruler of all Magneto's _homo sapien_ slaves, he had to start somewhere.

Now that was a sick fucking diabolical supervillain plan if Paul ever heard one.

Like he told Mr. Lehnsherr, he was a peaceful man, and he tried to love his brother, even though his fellow men were usually kicking him in the face, literally or figuratively, and he did like Professor X's version of the world better.

But, if the shit went down, Paul didn't want to be under it.

In the end, fate would decide.

And Paul decided to let fate decide whether his adventures in maskdom let him to heroism or villainy.

That would be a gooddamn great origin story.

And anything's better than wages.

But, like his father said, you had to do something, or know something of have powers to be a superhero. Just to be a trainee for the Avengers or the Justice League, and you had to be a mutant and go to X-Man school to be an X-Man, and you at least had to have an in to be considered.

Supervillains didn't have structure.

All you needed was a costume, a story and a dastardly plan.

He shaved his beard down to a goatee, thinking that looked more debonair. He went out and bought a green cape and a green leotard and a green mask leftover from St. Patrick's Day, and ordered an iron-on of the Egyptian god Anubis from a comic book and put it on the front of the leotard, because he knew he had to be the green something, and the name of the place his father was born in Russia meant "jackal" in English.

He started running around the neighbourhood with his hair in a ponytail stuffed down the back of the leotard, which had four snaps on the bottom that he fastened over his tights. When people asked him what the fuck he was doing and who the hell he was, he told them that he was the Green Jackal, and fate would decide whether he was friend to man, or foe.

And one mysterious line and a half-assed costume got him the kind of respect that no one had ever shown him in all the freaky days of his outcast life.

He had done it half for a lark, like the time he told Skinny that if Lois Lane really married Clark Kent even though she was in love with Superman, he'd come to Grossman's during rush hour, naked, with a Superman "S" painted on his chest and stand at the counter and eat a head cheese sandwich.

He did it, too.

But, when people started treating him like he really was a mask, Paulie got to thinking.

Brooklyn had produced a few masks. Captain America was from Red Hook. The Comedian and the Joker were both from his mother's old neighbourhood, East New York.

Which side of the cape would the Green Jackal, the first mask out of Bensonhurst be on?

Maybe, just maybe, he thought, he could really do it.

It felt good, though, just to put the costume on and be the Green Jackal, it made him feel like a whole new man, a better man, a man who could do any fucking thing he wanted to.

This was it.

This was what he was supposed to do.

Be the Green Jackal.

He was all the sudden the man he always wanted to be, and he didn't even have to work for it.

That should have tipped him off that it was bogus.

It wasn't even like he did it on purpose, his crime, when he finally did it.

Screwed the pooch, like Aunt Aggie always said.

Anyway, Paul wasn't too discreet about his costume; he kept in it a brown paper sack in the back of his Beetle. Rosie found it there, and she went nuts over it; she told him that she really wanted to make it with a mask, and, could he please, please, please put the costume on.

So, Paul put the costume on.

It was like magic. Paul was already hornier than the average bear, but the new man in his costume was like the Great God Pan.

The Green Jackal.

Ruthless and pitiless, a diabolical character, loved by women, feared by men.

Then Rosie she started telling him she wanted him to do it to her at work, with the costume on.

Paul was not sure if he was cool with that, but Rosie promised him it would be on her break, and nobody would see, and she never did it in the booth, and so on.

Now Rosie was pretty cool and they got along well, she was basically Paul's girlfriend, although neither of them ever said as much, and Paul didn't mind her occasional harmless crazy shit, because she was the only chick he ever met who was as horny as he was and they were really good friends, too. So one fine winter afternoon, Paul had a liquid lunch, went home, put his costume in a new paper bag from the A& P , and got on the subway to go to Manhattan.

He figured, what the fuck, why not make it Rosie's lucky day?

He put his foot down when she said she wanted them to do it in the booth so whoever put their quarter in could watch, so she locked up her booth and still, Rosie really seemed to like it and Paul had a good time, too.

Anyway, he started bragging to her that he had all these dastardly schemes planned and Rosie just laughed and told him that he ought to be smart and stay out of crime and if he really wanted to make some dough he should use the costume to get parts in porno, and she knew some people who could get him into that.

Which pissed Paul off.

He was already pissed off because she lied to him about locking the door to the booth, because the window opened up when they were right in the middle of it, and he couldn't get it to close again until the guy's time was up, and Paul was right in the middle of it, it wasn't like he could just quit.

Peep shows and pornos, was that what he was going to do with his life?

That wasn't who the Green Jackal was. Some half-assed porn star.

He was something grander, something bigger, something better, like his fellow masks in the headlines and the comic books.

Paulie knew he hadn't decided to become a mask so he could make cheap fuck flicks in a basement in Queens and get the crabs.

He had to show Rosie and show the world, show them what Paul Edward Stavrogin Blake was really made of.

So he took the switchblade from Rosie's purse without her knowing and he just left the porno shop, and decided to let fate show him her hand.

If he had seen a guy stealing a purse from an old lady, he would have foiled the robbery and become a superhero.

But, as it turned out the first thing he saw was a drugstore, so he went in and held the place up and became a supervillain.

By such slender threads hang our destinies.

Had he just been a robber, the owner would have called the cops, but since he was wearing a costume, albeit a half-assed, piece of shit, homemade costume, the owner called the Superhero Defence Hotline.

At the time, Paul didn't know that such a thing existed, and he just about shit himself when his half-assed attempt to engage in supervillainy was interrupted by some genuine superheroes.

Everything went wrong, terribly wrong.

He ran out and crashed into someone as big as him, and found himself eye to eye with his Uncle Eddie, who was inexplicably dressed like the Comedian.

Paul wondered was why his Uncle Eddie was dressed up like the Comedian.

"You in a hurry, asshole?" the Comedian asked, wryly, in Uncle Eddie's familiar rumble of a Brooklyn accent.

Paul realised then that he his Uncle Eddie was the Comedian.

Fate had pulled a Joker out of the deck.

He turned tail and ran like Hell.

"Leave him go, kid. He's just some punk in his sister's tights. He ain't worth it." The Comedian said to the Harlequin, but when Paul turned around she was right on his heels.

Paul was pretty sure that he hadn't been recognised, but the Harlequin chased him despite what her partner told her.

She cornered him in a dimly lit basement and despite the fact that at some point in his panicked attempts to prevent her from killing him, she fell on Rosie's knife, the Harlequin beat him up pretty good.

He hadn't rolled her over on her back because he was looking to give it to her, he just wanted to get away, and when she reached up and tore his mask off, at first she looked confused, and then she got real interested all the sudden, a funny look on her face as she peered at him in the muted daylight.

The costume.

It had to be the costume.

And then, not only did Paul, who was one of the biggest guys on his block get his ass handed to him by a girl half his size, he couldn't even get it up for her, further humiliating himself as a man and a supervillian.

At his trial, Paul was found not guilty by reason of insanity, and sent to Arkham Asylum for a six month term. Rosie knew the truth, but he wouldn't let her, or any of his family come visit him, and he had her tell Benny the same thing that his mother told Uncle Eddie, which was that Paul got a good-paying job at a resort hotel upstate for the skiing season.

"I'm a freak, Doc. An outcast. And I've been a freak and an outcast all my life, and so have all my friends. That's not what bothers me. I don't wanna have a nice normal life with a job in the city and 2.5 kids and a Chevy in the garage on Long Island, like everybody else."

Paul was about to tell Dr. Long that what he wanted, the way he really felt was that he couldn't wait to get back out on the street so that he could show everyone in New York what side of the cape he was really on, to show them he was the Green Jackal, superhero, friend to man and freak and mutant, alike, because he finally realised what it was he wanted to do with his life and that was to be as mask, that he was the Green Jackal.

Yeah. Tell him that shit, Paulie, and you can kiss your transfer out of this funhouse hellhole goodbye.

"But …uhhh…I just didn't know how to get out from under it. I guess the Green Jackal was a shortcut to me havin' to stand up and be my own man and work for what I wanted." Paul said.

Dr. Long beamed a great smile.

Bingo.

He was a nice man, and Paulie liked talking to him, and some of the things the shrink said actually helped, but he was a nine to fiver, a regular Joe, and a mask's truth was something he could never understand.

"That's very good, Paul. I'm so glad that you realised that. We'll work through this, yet. Now, I'm sorry, I have to see some other patients today, but we'll talk again, tomorrow. Alright?"

Paul got up.

He was a very big man, but he spoke quietly, and moved quietly, and you hardly noticed until he stood up and you took a look at him, Dr. Long thought.

"Okay. I don't wanna miss lunch, anyway." Paul said

He walked away from the doctor's office, past the rows of padded cells where the less tractable patients were being held.

The door to one opened, and the Joker emerged, brushing some white lint off of his suit.

"Ten minutes, Greenie! A new record!"

"That's pretty good, Jack."

"Don't look so glum, Greenie. Don't let that two-bit shrink in there fill your head up with his lies and bullshit. What did you tell him, today?"

"Whatever I thought would get me outa this Mad Hatter's tea party from Hell and back on the street fast enough." Paul said.

"Mad Hatter's tea party from hell? Oh, I like that. I really do. I'll make it the theme of the bash I throw for myself when I make parole. And that's the spirit, Greenie. Don't let the sons of bitches get to you, and put the ring in your nose and the bit in your mouth."

"Yunno, Jack, that's what my Uncle Eddie always tells me."

"Then your Uncle Eddie must be a very smart man."

***

Of all the inmates, the Joker and his colleague the Penguin had taken the most interest in Paul.

He seemed like such a poor, lost soul.

"There he is, Jack. I told you he would show up for lunch. One thing about Greenie, he never misses a meal, even though all they feed us is this disgusting slop."

"Look at him, Oswald. Sitting there staring at his food like he hadn't got a friend in the world. That poor kid. He's so depressed. Defeated. Utterly bereft. I was talking to him this morning after that shrink got done with him, and the poor lad was so depressed. You can tell the boy thinks he's nothing but a piece of shit and an utter failure. And what's he going to do when they let him out?" the Joker noted.

He and the Penguin collected their trays.

"Without his mask? What would happen to any of us, without our masks? Despair. Doom. Oblivion. He'll probably end up some junkie bum shoved into a garbage can. Six months from now his mother will be going to the morgue to identify his half-decomposed remains. What a waste, Jack." The Penguin replied.

"Well, I think we should help him. We need some new blood. The League has some new heroes, all those X-Men are kids, the Society needs some new villains. The world's changing, Oswald. We have to change with it. Get some kids into the mix. Close this Generation Gap."

"Get someone for Livy to play with?"

"Yes. Exactly. It'll be good for the boy. Make a man out of him. Let's go sit with Gloomy Gus."

Paul went from looking depressed to looking nervous when the Joker and the Penguin came and sat with him.

"Hello, Jack. Hello, Mr. Cobblepot."

"You look awfully depressed this afternoon, Paulie." The Penguin said.

"It's the food. Yunno I lost ten pounds since I came here? I can hardy stomach this shit. I'd just about kill somebody for a corned beef sandwich and a pickle. Or some pizza. Or a goddamn beer."

"Why didn't you say something before, Greenie? I have connections, you know. I can get you whatever you want." The Joker assured him.

"How about ten minutes alone with my Old Lady?" Paul asked.

"Ten minutes? What about an hour? That's child's play. You tell her to bring you a corned beef sandwich and a pickle from Grossmann's, and wear something sexy the next time she comes to see you, and good old Joker will take care of the rest."

"Why would you wanna do that for me."

"Well, you and my Livy are friends. And besides, we supervillains have to stick together."

Paul actually held his nose as he opened his mouth and shoved in a forkful of mystery meat.

"I don't think I'm much of a supervillian, Jack. My Old Lady, she's kinda freaky, she thinks she can get me into a porno movie. Maybe I'll do it." He said, grimacing as he swallowed.

"What do they make this slop outa, ground donkey balls?"

The Joker and the Penguin looked at eachother and nodded.

"Don't you think that's a bit demeaning to you as a man, let alone a supervillain?" the Joker asked.

"Anything's better than wages." Paul answered.

"Quite right, my boy. But still, what do you think the Harlequin is going to think of you if you just up and quit? Or start making blue movies? That's no way for one of us to make a living." the Penguin asked.

"She'll never give you a second thought, that's what." The Joker agreed.

"But I ain't the villainous type." Paul protested.

"Dear boy, you don't have to be a vicious psychopathic killer to be a supervillain. It helps, but you don't have to be. Why, you can be in it for the money. Or for political reasons. Or just for the hell of it. For any reason you like, really." The Joker argued.

"I don't?"

"Of course not. Take Lex, for example. He hates Superman. Wants to see him dead, but nobody else. He's interested in power, so his plans all revolve around that. And our associate, the Riddler, he's not really a violent fellow at all. He enjoys the game. There are all kinds of crime, my boy. I'm sure you can find something that suits your personality. Art heists and jewel thieving, I would say. What do you think, Jack?"

"Yes, most likely, Oswald. And there's a lot of money in that, Paul. And a lot of press. Women. Foreign travel. The Jet set, Paulie. It always makes the news. Very impressive. And exciting. Besides, well, should we tell him?"

Penguin didn't know where his old compadre was going, but he played along.

"Oh no, Jack."

"Maybe he won't believe us. Edgar? Edgar come and sit with us. Paul, this is Edgar Jacobi. You probably know him as Moloch. Edgar, tell our newest recruit here what you think the Harlequin's partner is like."

Penguin gave Joker a quizzical look and Joker nodded, slightly, and when Penguin began to realise the true nature of Joker's mad plan, he had to suppress a diabolical laugh.

That's why Jack Napier was the Dictator For Life of the Society of Supervillains.

Because he was the best.

Moloch sat down with his tray, and looked over both shoulders.

"That no-good son-of-a-bitch! He's a sorry excuse for a man! Didja ever read that _Under the Hood _ book? I've done some horrible things, sure, but I never did anything like that to a woman! The man's a pig. A slime. A piece of shit. He thinks he's James Bond with a License to Kill but he's more like Jack the Ripper. The Comedian, he don't bother to harm somebody if he don't have to kill them, he just kills 'em. Men, women, little kids, he doesn't give a fuck. I'll tell you what, I feel sorry for that girl who works with him. God only knows what he does to her, the sadistic bastard. I can't run out of bad things to say about that fuckin' prick." He said.

"I had no idea." The Penguin said.

"I'm shocked." The Joker added.

Paul had to sit on himself to restrain his anger.

_Take it easy, Paulie. If you let these guys know that you're the Comedian's nephew, you're dead meat._

"Hey! The guy's an American hero! He's in the goddamn history books, for that Iwo Jima thing. I mean, he couldn't really be that bad, could he? I'm tellin' you, I don't buy that shit! I don't wanna hear that shit!" Paul protested, trying to hold his tongue.

"Jesus, all you Micks from the boroughs do stick together, dontcha? Just like the Wops do. Listen, kid, when I tellya that the Comedian is a bad man, I mean worse than anything you could ever imagine. I know. I'm his arch-enemy, I know the cocksucker better than his friends do. I'm not some dumb half-Mick half-Bohunk who thinks anybody from the old neighbourhood can't be all that bad. That goddamn Comedian sunnuvabitch, he's the fuckin' worst. I can't help it if you're too much of a half-assed mask worshipper to know it." Moloch maintained.

That was all for Paul.

He thought back to his earliest memory.

His father and his uncle were in the backyard, digging a hole for the barbecue pit they were going to build. It was a hot day and even though his mother told him to stay in the house and let the men work, Paul took off his shirt and grabbed his toy shovel and bucket that he took to Jones Beach with him, and crawled into the hole and started digging.

"Whatcha doin, there, Paulie?" Uncle Eddie asked.

"Ma said the men was workin. So here I am."

Uncle Eddie laughed and his father lifted him out of the hole.

"Digging hole don't make you man, Paulie." Ivan said.

"That's right, kid. Yunno what makes you a man? Ya gotta stand up. Ya gotta be a stand up guy. Never take a dive." Uncle Eddie said.

"Right. You stand up and take what's coming. Don't let nobody make punk out of you." Ivan agreedd.

Paulie hadn't been too sure what they mean then, but he knew now, and he supposed it went double for jail, where guys might want to make you a punk, literally.

And triple for when some pointy-eared jumped-up drug pusher in a magician suit started insulting you and your family.

Paul stood up just like John Wayne in the movies.

He pushed himself away from the table with both hands and sprang to his feet.

Letting the chair scrape behind him so everybody could see that Paul Stavrogin was nobody's fool.

"Hey, fuck you, Magic Man! You keep that shit up, I don't give a shit who the fuck you are, you're gonna end up with my foot in your ass! I've never been a failure with my dick or my fists, and since you ain't my type, I hope ya like swallowin' your own teeth!" Paul shot back.

_Wow. That was a great line._

"What the fuck is your problem? You the Comedian's boyfriend?" Moloch asked.

Paul hadn't been himself, lately. He was confused, and lost and depressed, he'd lost himself and he didn't know when he'd be meeting up with himself again.

It was a terrible feeling, but just for that moment, he felt pretty good and sure and positive about hauling Uncle Eddie's arch-nemesis across the table and pounding on him until the orderlies came and shot him up with Thorazine.

That was pretty much the most violent thought that Paul had ever had, but as it was also the clearest in a month, he decided to go with it.

With a snarled curse, Paul lunged across the table, going right from Gentle Giant to Incredible Hulk, and the Joker and the Penguin leapt to their feet to restrain him and calm him down before an orderly noticed the ruckus.

"I'm no fuckin' punk! Not now, not tomorrow, not ever! You're dead, Magic Man! You hear me? You're a fuckin' walking dead man!"

Paul couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth.

_Jesus, I sound like Uncle Eddie but I know I ain't got the jam to back it up, not with these guys. They're pros. I'm in over my head. I'm in over my head. I'm in over…fuck it, I don't care. _

_I'm gonna kill this motherfucker._

"Take it easy, kid! Take is easy! Nobody's callin' you a punk. I know the Comedian. Motherfucker's a lot of things but I know he ain't a fag, and you don't seem too queenly, yourself. I was just testin' ya. Seein' if you had any real balls for what we got planned for you." Moloch said, throwing his hands up in the air and laughing.

"Planned for me?" Paul asked.

"Oho, you see, Edgar? The lad can do something besides mope! I was right about him! What we're getting at here, my boy, is that we think you have talent. We'd like to invite you to join The Society." The Joker finished.

Paul's mouth went slack in shock.

He sort of fell into his chair.

"Me? Me, in the Secret Society of Super-Villains. I…I don't know what to say."

The two villains smiled at each other.

_Gotcha!_

"Try saying yes, dear boy." Oswald suggested .

Paul though about it.

The Society.

That meant money, and power and really being somebody important.

The Harlequin would have to be impressed with him, then.

He could be her arch-nemesis, and they could be secret lovers, like Batman and Catwoman.  
Everybody would be impressed by him, if he was in The Society.

He pictured himself driving around the neighbourhood in a big fancy car, throwing money and his weight around, just like a Mafioso, only better.

And he could hire all his friends to be his henchmen.

The Green Jackal, Black Knight of the Society, Freak King of New York, American Outlaw Master of All He Surveyed.

Fate was showing him a few more of the cards in her hand.

Three of a kind.

_Grrrooooovy._

"Jesus, me in The Society. All my life I been an outcast, nobody ever wanted me to join nothin'. I mean, this is my only chance to do somethin', right? To be someone, to really be a man. My own man. Well, you know what? I'm tired of being a nobody. I'm tired of being a loser and a goddamn joke. I'm the Green Jackal."

Paul began to get a mad and resolute gleam in his eye.

This was his only chance to do something, to be someone, to really be a man.

He wasn't just a loser anymore. Call it fate, call it karma, call it luck, but he felt like that part of his life was over, like the old Paul was a dead man, dead and buried.

Dead and all his drab and dreary years of failure dead with him.

This was it.

He was right all along.

This was his one way ticket out of Palookaville.

He was the Green Jackal, supervillian, arch-nemesis of the Harlequin.

Let the games begin.

"Fuck it. I'll do it, I'm crazy enough. Count me in."

The boy looked both ways, reached into his Arkham jumpsuit and pulled a small notebook out of the waistband of his undershorts.

The three experienced villains bent over the table, conspiratorially.

"These are my plans for a costume and a hideout. I ain't got the money, though."

The Joker took the notebook and spirited it away, before Moloch could get a good look at it.

"Don't worry about it. The Society will provide you with some seed money. Now, I'll go over these plans with the other members, and we'll talk, soon." The Joker promised him.

He got up with his tray.

"Looking forward to working with you, young man." The Penguin said.

The three villains left their new recruit alone with his thoughts.

"Jack, are you sure we're square with Eddie? The last thing I need is him waitin' outside the door when I come out to kick my ass." Moloch inquired.

"Of course I'm sure. We buy the kid his costume, give him a little Society money, he gets out, comes up with some crack-brained scheme, my Liv foils him. He's so scared he gets out of the supervillain game, forever, and goes off into the sunset with this crazy girl he knows. Livvie gets that little confidence boost she needs to leave her Troubles behind, once and for all. Everybody's happy." The Joker assured him.

Moloch looked over at Paul, who had a mad and faraway look in his eye.

"Why the fuck you suppose he jumped to that bastard Comedian's defence like that?"

The Joker shrugged.

"Who knows? It's probably like you said about the old neighbourhood. The boy isn't really one of us, anyway. Listen, Edgar, I don't want you getting your vendetta against Eddie in on this. He's an old friend of mine. And if anything happens to my little girl, I'll know that crazy kid had nothing to do with it. Do you get me?"

"Sure, Jack. I understand."

"I hope you do. Or you'll end up swallowing a lot more than your teeth."

Batman's opponents waited until Moloch was on his way.

"Do you think he noticed, Oswald?"

"No. He didn't seem to notice that young Paulie looks an awful lot like your old friend Eddie Blake."

"But we noticed, didn't we? And Edgar is such a tiresome, second-rate thug. An embarrassment. An embarrassment who has been encroaching on too many of our plans, of late. And a thorn in, as you say, my old friend's side."

"Are you plotting something diabolical, my dear Jack?"

"Of course I am, my dear Oswald. Of course I am."

**II: Eddie**

The Comedian couldn't figure out some of the small-time shit that his partner fucked around with, but she was young and full of piss, wind and excitement, and one thing about street work, it was a lot simpler than government jobs, cleaner and more to the point.

Made you feel like you were out there doing what a mask was really supposed to do.

He stood in the hallway of the rundown tenement, leaning againt the wall with his foot up against it and his arms folded across his chest, smoking and waiting.

"Hey, Mister Comedian? Wotcha doin here?"

Some poor black kid who had the misfortune to live in this miserable, God-forsaken dump.

"I'm workin, kid. Go back in your apartment and stay there. Things are gonna get rough"

"No shit? You gonna kill somebody?"

"Probably."

"Can I watch?"

"No, kiddo. This ain't TV. You might get hurt."

"Well, after he's dead, can I have his money?"

"Sure, kid. Why not. Go home, now. An' no peekin' through a crack in the door."

The Comedian watched the kid scurry back to his apartment and noted the number on the door.

Nice kid.

Smart kid.

Probably be a goddamn lawyer for the NAACP someday.

A man came up the stairs, and without looking behind him, pulled a gun, and went to the door of the apartment Liv was in.

The Comedian moved up behind him, knocked the gun out of his hand, and spun him around.

Skinny white kid.

Junkie thug.

"Hey, punk, if you like fuckin' breathing, you get the fuck outa here."

"Fuck you, old man! You take that shit and shove—"

Eddie was not interested in the rest of Skinny Junkie Thug's comment.

He grabbed the punk's head in both of his hands, lifted him into the air and, twisting his wrists, abruptly, snapped his neck.

He was pretty sure that he saw the light leaving the punk's eyes, but, just to make sure, after the body hit the ground, he fired a bullet right between the thug's eyes.

"Man, that shit was cool! Just like TV!"

"Get back in your goddamn door, kid!" Eddie yelled.

The body jumped, it's heels hammered on the floor and an apartment door closer to the Comedian opened.

A middle-aged black woman poked her head out.

"What the hell?"

"Don't worry about it, lady. We're on your side. Just your friendly neighbourhood superheroes, comin' down to take out the trash." The Comedian assured her.

"I never thought I'd see no goddamn superheroes in this neighbourhood."

"None of the good ones, anyway." The Comedian cracked.

"He's dead. That's good enough for me." The woman said, and shut her door.

Hearing his partner roar, Eddie stepped back from the door as it bulged outward and splintered, the kid on top of this big, fat guy who was either a spic or a nigger, Eddie couldn't tell.

He tried to crawl away and the Comedian kicked him in his already bloody and mashed face, then put his foot and most of his weight on the man's balls.

He screamed.

"Shut the fuck up, asshole! People are tryin' ta sleep. It's a weeknight." Liv told him.

She put her gloved hand into a bag and produced a syringe which contained a nice hot shot of heroin and strychnine for the hot shot on the ground.

She straddled his bulk, punched him in the throat, and rolled up his sleeve.

"I'll split, man. I'll do it. I will. I'm gone. I'll never sell another ounce of dope! Not an ounce! I swear!" he croaked

"Baby, I told youse you get the fuck outa here two weeks ago, and I told youse that if you didn't, I'd be back and you'd be dead. You bet your ass you're going. With your friend over there whose brains are all over the wall. Straight to Hell."

Liv stabbed the spike into his vein, and pushed the plunger in.

"Say goodbye, motherfucker!'

Most of the doors in the hallway opened, and residents from upper floors and lower floors came out to peer over the stairwells at the tableau.

The Comedian, with his foot on the living man's balls, holstering his smoking gun, casually puffing his cigar, the lifeless body lying beside him, its neck at an unnatural angle, blood and bone and brains all over the wall and the floor.

The Harlequin on top of the living man, holding his bulk down as he foamed, at the mouth convulsed, and then, finally, died.

The Comedian drew his gun.

"Don't shoot him. I didn't go to all the trouble to OD him so you could shoot him!"

"Amateur theatrics. When they find the spike in him, his friends out there will get the message. What did I tell you about confirming your kills?"

"Well, better safe than sorry."

The Harlequin got up, breathing hard, pulled her gun and fired a bullet into the second corpse's head, right between the eyes.

As they were putting their guns away, a little bald Italian man came down the hallway, with a janitor's cart.

He was the Super.

"They're dead? Good. I know it's a lousy thing to say, but we don't know how to thank you. We called the cops, an the cops took 'em in, let 'em out the next day. They came back here and beat the shit outa me. There was no trial, they pled out. And they were back. Terrorisin' the place. That was justice?" the little man asked.

"This time, Mr Bartoletti, you needed street justice." the Harlequin said

"Street justice is the only fuckin' justice there is. Cops ain't worth shit, politicians ain't worth shit. They're a fuckin' joke. I know. If it wasn't for us fuckin' masks this country would be even further down the toilet than it already is." The Comedian volunteered.

"You got that right, my friend." Mr. Bartoletti agreed.

"Anybody else you know, Mr. Bartoletti, if they can't or won't go to the cops, or the government, or the law, tell them to call the Harlequin. No matter what they need. I'm not just Murder Incorporated, yunno. Anybody has trouble, of any kind, no matter how big or how small, you call the Harlequin."

Mr. Bartoletti nodded.

"That's what you do?"

"That's what I do. Somebody has to give a damn about the little guy." Harlequin said

"Don't worry about cleanup, pal. I got people who do that. Show's over, folks. Everybody just go to bed, and you can rest easy tonight. These two won't be making any trouble around here, anymore." The Comedian announced.

He crouched down and rifled the dead men's pockets.

The little boy who he'd promised the money to ran over.

"Five hundred bucks. That ain't hay, kid. Don't spend it all in one place."

"I ain't. I'm gonna give it to my Momma."

Some of the residents thanked the two masks, some of them just went quietly to bed, and as the hallway emptied, the Harlequin and the Comedian went back out onto the street.

Eddie stopped at the police callbox.  
"Hello, Jimbo? Guess who? Cleanup on aisle three. That's right. You got it. G'night."

They began walking to the car.

"You okay, kid?"

"Just a split lip, Eddie. You?"  
"You know me, kid. I like working on American soil. Especially in my town. Makes me feel like I'm doin' somethin' right. You hungry?"

"Starving. I wore myself out, wrestling with that big bastard."

"Grossmann's?"

"Yeah. That sounds good."

***

After they got done eating, they returned to Eddie's apartment, which was just around the corner.

Liv was too tired to drive home; she and Eddie took a shower and went to bed, and she fell asleep, immediately.

It was her first night back at work as the Harlequin since she'd almost been fatally wounded, so Eddie really couldn't blame her.

Tomorrow was another day.

It just happened to be the day she was going to be inducted into the Justice League, and Kent liked to do these things early, so it was just as well that the kid got some sleep.

***

Right on the heels of that day, one of the best days Eddie could remember, came one of the worst.

The kind of day which started out fucking lousy, and was only going to get worse.

Early and lousy, with the phone ringing, persistently.

"Liv…wake up. C'mon, wake up. Go answer that fuckin' phone."

"Why don't you?"

"Cos you're 25 years younger than I am. C'mon."

"Goddamn it, Eddie, you're only an old man when it suits ya. Okay. I got it."

She stumbled out of the bedroom, swearing.

He heard her laughing at someone, and had just about fallen back to sleep when the screaming started.

"…your're gonna do what? You listen to me, chief, if you do that I will muthafuckin' kill youse, …ya muthafucker! D'you understand! I know exactly where the fuck you are, and I will go the fuck down there and I will fuckin' stick my fuckin' fist into your silicone fuckin' chest and I will rip your muthafuckin' livin', beatin' fuckin' heart out, and the last fuckin' thing you'll see is me, crushin' it in my muthafuckin' fist while you die, ya cocksucker!"

Eddie chuckled a little to himself and rolled over.

Then things got serious.

"…what am I gonna give you? Give you? This is what I'm gonna fuckin' give you, ya cunt…"

_BLAM!_

"…an' I'm comin' over right now to give it to you! You know who I am? Well, I'll tell ya! I'm Trivelino J. Napier! They call me Napalm. You know what Napalm does? It burns things down! You don't fuck with my father, and you sure as hell don't fuck with me!"

Yes, Eddie, that was a gunshot in your living room.

Eddie jumped out of bed in time to see the kid standing there with a smoking gun in her hand, having fired it into his bulletproof vest, holding the phone next to the muzzle of the gun.

"Yeah, I thought so! Fuck you. Fuck you very much. Don't bother Mr. Blake ever again. Ever. Or I'll slice your fuckin' tits off with piano wire! "

Liv slammed the phone down.

She picked up the receiver and slammed it repeatedly against the coffee table, then hung it up again, snarling in fury.

"Motherfucker! Where's my fuckin' clothes!" she bawled.

"What the fuck was that? Are you crazy? Shootin' fuckin' guns in the fuckin house at eight in the fuckin' morning?"

"Don't fuck with me right now, Eddie!"

"Don't point that fuckin' gun at me! Just who the fuck do you think you are?"

Liv tossed the gun onto the couch.

"There! It's not pointed at you, anymore!"

She turned around and walked back into the bedroom.

"Who the fuck was on the phone? Don't just walk away from me!"

He grabbed Liv's shoulder and spun her around, angrily, and she shoved him away, just as angrily.

"Some chick who wants ten large from you or they'll send your girlfriend the pictures of you fucking her and two of her friends. I laughed at her, I said I was the closest thing you had to that and I didn't give a shit. So she said you were telling her you had a government job and she was sendin' them to the papers. So I put the fear of God into the bitches, and they ain't doin' nothin' now. Nice goin' Eddie. Real fuckin' professional."

"Fuck you, bitch! You musta fucked half of New York!"

"Yeah, but I don't brag that I work for Dr. Manhattan, and I sure as fuckin' hell never had my picture taken, doin it, you dumb motherfucker!" Liv shot back.

She slammed the bedroom door shut and locked it, and the Comedian put his fist through it, but by that time Liv was dressed.

She backed up against the wall in mock fear as Eddie unlocked the door and threw it open.

"Go on, Eddie! Fuckin' hit me! Take your best shot! If you're ready to go, I'm ready to go! It's been too goddamn long since the last time I threw down on your ass!"

"Get your ass the fuck outa here! Now!"

"I'm goin! I'm goin'!"

She pushed a button on the bracelet her arm, giving him the one arm salute and the finger at the same time.

Eddie Blake threw something against the wall, it turned out to be a mug after it broke, and got back into bed.

"Fuck it." He muttered, and went back to bed.

***

The evening did not go much better, interesting as it always was to fly around with the Boy Scout and the Inkblot, in his jumped-up zeppelin, looking for an old lady's cat to get out of a tree.

He was just killing time until he had to go pick up that degenerate fuck the Green Jackal, beat a little sense into him and then get on his way to DC for the Summit.

Since he and the kid had become partners, Danny Boy made an attempt to make nice with him, and he didn't notice the Comedian not being in the mood.

"Look, Danny Boy, just drive this fuckin' thing. I'm not in the goddamn mood to make small talk."

"Why? Is there something wrong with Liv? Is it about that Green Jackal guy?"

_DING!_

And the little man wins a big cigar.

"What the fuck is it with you and my partner? No, there's nothin' fuckin' wrong with her! Why? Are you innarested or something? What, did you fuck her, too?"

"No! The subject never came up."

"Bullshit! If you have a dick and it comes up, so does the fuckin' subject."

The Comedian was angry, he was always angry, but there was a hint of exasperated desperation in his voice.

Like Liv had finally done something so weird, so bizarre, so unbelievably degenerate that even he couldn't fathom it.

Something like interrupting her beating of the Green Jackal to make a pass at him.

At least that was the rumour.

Liv had once made a pass at him, under altogether different circumstances, and Dan had uncategorically turned her down.

She was a beautiful girl, but she was too crazy for him.

Still, he decided to continue to lie.

"I guess I'm not her type."

The Comedian laughed, cheerlessly.

"Not her type? Bullshit! You're her type. Rorschach is her type. He's got a dick and a pulse. That's her type. All that kid wants is a bottle of whiskey, a stiff cock and a warm mouth in the dark. Fuckin' shanty Irish whore." He said.

"Harlequin's not that bad. At all." Rorschach grunted.

Dan felt his face turning red.

The Comedian continued his tirade.

"I mean, I've heard of masks screwing their arch-enemies, and I've heard of people that masks have screwed becoming their arch-enemies, but did you ever pause in the middle of beating up some broad who had a knife on her or a gun and was trying to kill you to think, hey, maybe I'd like to fuck this one? Well, didja?"

"No. No, not like that, no." Dan replied.

"Jesus, if it was a man did what she did, they'd be takin' his mask and throwin' his as in jail for rape. And now that big dumb prick the Green Jackal is gettin' out early, and if I was him, I'd be going back to see if the offer was still open. Well, fuck him. If he touches my partner, so much as touches a hair on her head, I'll tear his cock out by the roots! With my bare fuckin' hands! And if he goes after her, that motherfucker is gonna die like no man has ever fuckin' died, before. They'll have to send him home to his mother in ten different shoeboxes."

"That's right, Comedian. Harlequin can't help the way she is. It's her nature. She fights it, but it's hard to fight your nature. Someone has to protect her." Rorschach piped in.

"You're prob'ly right. And I have to go to DC."

"I don't."

"She'll know that you're there. She probably knows what you smell like. Kid's like a goddamn animal, sometimes, always sniffin' around."

"Then if she needs backup, she'll know she has it." Rorschach promised.

"I'll keep an eye on her, too, Comedian. I'm sure it was just some kind of weird passing thing. She might have mistaken him for somebody else. Or maybe it was hormonal. PMS, or something." The Nite Owl volunteered.

"Thanks." The Comedian said, tersely.

Dan thought that might have been the nicest thing the Comedian had said to him since 1963.

***

Following his most exciting evening, and in an extremely rotten moon, Eddie Blake drove to Arkham, to pick up the Green Jackal.

Now, there had to be something about the son of a bitch that made Liv do what she did, and the Comedian was determined to find out what it was.

That kind of shit wasn't normal behaviour, even for Liv.

He must have said something to her, otr did something to her.

Wait a minute.

Stop the presses.

Did something to her?

Maybe the kid was just playing it off, and this Green Jackal had been trying to rape her.

The Comedian gripped his steering wheel so hard he almost bent the metal.

In that case, the Devil was going to have to start another kettle of boiling oil in hell, because Eddie Blake would be sending the Green Jackal straight to him.

Or, maybe he'd just kill the bastard, regardless, on general principles, for whatever it was he did or said that made Liv try and take a crack at him.

The kid could find a new arch-nemesis.

At the very least, Eddie was going teach the little bastard a lesson he's never forget in supervillain etiquette beat the little bastard until he was grovelling at his boots and bleeding on the ground and begging not to be hit again.

That, of course, was when the real fun started.

After he got done with the son of a bitch, the villainous bastard would be glad to be with the Devil in Hell, just to get the hell away from the wrath of Edward Morgan Blake.

The Comedian smiled to himself, laughed a little, lit a fresh cigar, shifted into a higher gear and stomped on the accelerator.

"Greenie, whoever the fuck you are, you been fuckin' with the wrong son-of-a bitch."

He started to laugh in earnest, then, as he sped down the road.


	5. Helter Skelter

**V: Helter Skelter**

_(Warning to my readers: This chapter contains both graphic sex and bloody violence. Yes, I know how happy that makes you.)_

**Arkham Asylum, New York, 1970, later that night.**

**I: Paul**

"Alright, Stavrogin. On your feet."

Flashlights shined in Paul's face, awakening him from a deep sleep.

He was stricken with a sudden feeling of mortal terror.

He reached under the bed, groping for something, anything.

When his hand touched something that felt heavy and solid, he ripped it free and jumped out of bed.

"No! No fuckin' way! I'll die, first!" Paul snarled, threatening the two orderlies with what appeared to be a piece of bedframe.

They were about to jump him, but then the Chief of Staff came into view.

"Leave him alone! Put that down, Mr. Stavrogin. This isn't some kind of assault. Gather up your things and come with us. Hurry."

Even though Paul had only completed a little over a month of his sentence, he was rushed to the main office, given his street clothes and told to change.

The Chief of Staff gave him his parole papers and an envelope with fifty dollars in it, and a plastic bag that contained his personal belongings.

Then, after a quick handshake, two orderlies walked him out into the chilly, rainy, moonless night and left him there.

Paul was confused, disoriented, and still half-asleep.

Where did they expect him to go, and how did they expect him to get there?

A car engine roared to life, startling him.

In the sudden light of a pair of headlights and the sound of a slamming door, Paul smelled cigar smoke before he saw the Comedian come strutting slowly around the front of the big, black Caddy.

His heart dropped into his feet and rooted him to the spot like a millstone at the same time as his stomach rose into his throat, choking him.

Fate had finally showed him her last card, and it was the Ace of Spades.

You don't trust fate to show you whether you're a hero or a villain, moron, you make that decision for yourself.

And you made the wrong one, you lazy prick.

Paul realised he wasn't a new man, or a better man, he was a dumb-ass piece of shit criminal, who disgraced himself, his family, and his mask.

Seeing his Uncle made reality spring up and sock Paul in the guts.

The plans he'd made with those guys inside seemed crazy to him. Even if he had a hideout and a costume, what the fuck was he going to do?

He was no supervillain.

Paul was filled with a combination of fear and shame as he quickly pulled the hood of the army coat that Patrick gave him over his head, and tried to slouch a little, in the dark.

If they mailed him anything, he was going to mail it back. Those guys would all be in for awhile, maybe years. They were real supervillains. They'd forget all about him, and he could go home and make amends.

He'd start with getting kittens out of trees, carrying old ladies' groceries, walking girls home at night, anything.

If he could only play it off, make it home undiscovered.

If it was a beating he was going to get he would take it.

That's the way it is.

You fuck up and you get punished.

You almost let the bad guys get you, Paulie. You didn't learn your lesson. That wasn't punishment enough.

This is punishment enough.

The Ace of Spades.

Stand up.

"Okay kid, you and me we gotta have a little talk, about you and the Harlequin. About your non-professional interest in her. I don't like that. And I could care less if she started it, it's fuckin' finished. But, we got a long ride home ta discuss it. Lotsa places to pull over an' chat. I know ya think ya ain't gonna talk, but trust me, pal, ya will. We can do it the nice way, an' I can take ya home to Momma, or youse can end up in the hospital."

Paul panicked.

Drive home to Momma?

Then he'd be discovered, the cat would be out of the bag and the shit would hit the fan.

Paul shook his head, thinking that he had really screwed the pooch, this time.

_If he finds out that it's me, about what I've done, Jesus, what the fuck is he gonna think of me? I'll never be able to look Uncle Eddie in the face ever again without feeling like a fucking piece of shit. It's bad enough the whole family knowing, without him knowing, too._

Paul did the only reasonable thing he could think of.

Play the hand as it lays.

As the Green Jackal.

The sky had really opened up and now it was pouring.

A cold, hard rain.

"You wanna talk, Comedian, we can talk right here. I'm a big boy, now, I can make my own way home." Paul said, disguising his voice and trying to sound as much like Clint Eastwood in the Man With No Name movies as possible.

The Comedian strutted over to him.

Real slow.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing, kid? Ya think you're a big tough guy, huh? And youse wanna do this the hard way? Good. I was just waiting for ya to give me a fuckin' reason, tough guy." he growled.

"Take your best shot, old man." The Green Jackal growled back.

_Tell him its you, dumb ass._

_No way. _

_Gotta stand up._

He braced himself.

The first thing Paul thought after the first hit was that he'd never been hit so hard in his life; it felt like a truck had slammed into his face.

He could feel his cheekbone crack and his face split open like a ripe piece of fruit.

Blood began to run down the side of his face, and down his collar.

"Not bad for an old man, huh, tough guy? That one's for trying to stick your tiny little dick in my partner."

Paul literally saw stars, like in the cartoons, then he realised they were the stars on his uncle's armor, swirling around. He couldn't believe he was still standing; there were two or three Comedians dancing around in front of his face as he staggered to and fro.

He felt dizzy, and the second hit, the one to his stomach made him feel sick, sick like he was going to puke his guts out.

The hood fell off his head, and Paul knew he should just give in and take a dive and go down, but he wasn't going to do it that way, he was going to take his medicine.

That's what his Dad and Uncle Eddie always told him, only a punk takes a dive.

Paul put his hood back up.

_This is the guy who taught you how to fight, Paulie. _

_Use his own moves against him._

Paul steeled himself against the pain, ducked a punch, blocked another, and landed his left hook directly to the side of the Comedian's face.

The Comedian was surprised, and he shook his head a little, to shake the punch off, but it didn't seem to faze him too much.

"Hey, you gotta pretty good left, kid. An' youse takes a punch pretty good. Not good enough, though. This one's to teach you never to fuckin' try it with her again. Say goodnight, punk."

Paul went to block a right, but it was too late for him to realise that his uncle was faking him out and he got on the wrong end of the most devastating uppercut in New York City.

It was like a having a small thermonuclear device detonate on your face.

Paul felt his chin split open like the atom as the hood fell off his head again and he went reeling. His feet were actually off the ground for a few seconds but it seemed like longer to Paul that he was flying through the air before he crashed into the light post that provided the only wan light flickering over the vast driveway.

The impact knocked the wind out of him with a whooshing grunt.

It would have hurt him really badly if he wasn't already in so much pain.

Paul had no idea how or why he was still conscious. He thought maybe it was because the rain was chilling him to the bone. At any rate, he hurt so badly he couldn't even tell where the pain was coming from; it was just a constant pain crawling up and down what felt like every crackling nerve in his body.

He looked wonderingly through his blurry eyes at the amount of blood that was all over him, and realised that he was in a lot of trouble.

Dizzy and breathing hard, Paul crawled to his feet and held onto the post, with his arms around it for support so that he wouldn't fall down.

He put his bloody, bruised face against the cold wet metal, the rain and the chill from the iron made him feel a little better. The rain ran down his face and his chest along with his blood, and everything was dark on one side where his face was cut and he couldn't open his eye.

Paul spit a mouthful of blood onto the ground; he could feel blood coming down the back of his throat, too and he could taste it, seeping from his spongy jaw with its suddenly wobbly teeth.

Like a sailor on the bridge of a sinking ship, the Green Jackal hung onto the post, coughing and retching and spitting blood onto the wet pavement, fighting unconsciouness and mortal terror with the sheer force of his will.

Paul was beginning to realise this was the kind of beating he couldn't take, and the Comedian was just fooling around with him; he hadn't even begun to fight, yet.

_If I fall down, he'll kill me._

_You better tell him it's you._

_Fuck that. I ain't no punk, I'm the Green Jackal, I ain't taking no fucking dive._

_This isn't the movies, Paulie. Or the comics. _

_You could get killed._

_If I can't live like a man, I sure as fuck can die like one._

The Comedian touched his hand to his lip, it was bleeding a little.

Liv was right, this punk had balls, and he wasn't afraid to get in there and punch with a real heavy-hitter.

Too bad he'd gone the wrong way, Eddie thought, as he strode toward the pole to finish the job."You seem like youse might be in a more talkative mood, now. So, just what do youse want with my partner?"

"Nothin'."

"Wrong answer, punk."

The Comedian grabbed hold of Paul, tore him away from the pole and threw him to the ground so hard that his body bounced.

Then, he put his boot on Paul's neck.

"Do yourself a favour, punk. Stay the fuck down. I'll let youse up, and the car door's open. I'm sure ya can make it to the car on your hands and knees like the little punk piece of shit you are."

"Oh yeah? How's about you gettin' your fuckin' foot off my neck, an' fight fair? You go ahead and let me up, goddamn youse! I'm no punk, I'm a man! A man, goddammit, and I ain't takin' no fuckin' dive! You're gonna hafta kill me! Or I'm gonna hafta kill youse! Now you get your fuckin' foot off my neck so's we can finish this shit!" Paul yelled.

Of course, he couldn't have carried the threat out if he tried; he was as helpless as a kitten, any energy he has was focused on remaining conscious and not choking to death on his own blood.

The Comedian stopped in his tracks, a surprised look on his face.

He recognised the voice, and the words, immediately.

Not to mention that to be that fucking tough and that fucking crazy, you had to be a descendant of Good-Looking Mickey Blake.

Calling up reserves of strength he didn't even know he had, Paul got to his feet and put his fists up.

He forgot his hood was off, he forgot that the Comedian could see him clearly in the light from the lamp-post, he forgot that he hadn't bothered to disguise his voice.

He threw another punch, which the Comedian blocked with one hand.

A few warm drops of his fresh blood splashed onto his Uncle's chest, and they were eye to eye.

Edie always said that Paulie looked just like him.

Although, at this point, you really couldn't tell.

He coughed.

A loose tooth smacked into the Comedian's armor and he caught it, and put it in his left holster.

They could put it back in at the hospital.

"Jesus H. Christ! I don't fuckin' believe it! I knew you weren't at no goddamn ski resort." the Comedian said.

"Don't hit me again, just now, Uncle Eddie. Gimme a few minutes to get my shit together. Then we can finish this fight. I just need to siddown for awahile. I can take it." Paul gasped.

He retreated back to his light-pole, and slid slowly down until he splashed into the pinkish puddle at the foot of the pole on the wet pavement, with his back against the metal.

"Man, you really fucked me up." Paulie observed.

"The fuck you can! Jesus, Paulie, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, look what I did to ya! What the fuck is the matter with you? My own fuckin' nephew, Jesus H. Christ! Why din'cha say it was you to begin with? What the fuck are you doin' fightin' me? Shit, I guess youse didn't know it was me."

"I knew it was you, Uncle Eddie. I knew it was you when I bumped into you outside the place in Times Square I tried to hold up."

"Then what the fuck were you doin?"

Paul shrugged.

"I deserved it. I embarrassed you and I embarrassed the family. I wanted to be a mask, but I didn't want to hafta work at it, so I went for the wrong side of the cape. Trusted fate to deal my hand. She dealt me the Ace of Spades, and I figured I'd play it as it laid."

Paul sensed the coming of his own demise, and decided to make it a cinematic moment.

He fished a cigarette out of the packet in his pocket, and tried to find his mouth to put it in.

It fell onto the ground.

"Shit." Paulie said.

The Comedian gave him and incredulous look.

"You really are crazy, Paulie."

Paul tried to bend over and pick it up and he really felt sick and the world got all black and swirly.

He got up, tried to walk it off and fell forward again.

This time he was really going to pass out, but Uncle Eddie caught him.

It was chilly and raining on him, but Paul felt hot and sweaty and dizzy and sick

A wave of mortal fear swept over him, which he attempted to put aside.

Best to stay cool, die well, time to come up with some good last words.

"Don't feel so great now, do ya, hotshot? Ain't like the movies, is it? Or your comic books?"

"I'm dyin. It's just as well. If I can't be who I am then I don't wanna live anymore anyway. But I don't wanna die out here in the rain. Or on the goddamn ground. Just put me in the car, okay?" Paul gasped.

He couldn't think of anything better, so that would have to be good enough.

"Shit, at least I'm gonna die with my boots on. Oh, wait. These are Pat's boots. Well, they're mine, now." Paulie observed.

"You're not gonna die, kid. With Pat's boots on or otherwise. You just got a real bad concussion. That makes ya feel like you're gonna die, but you ain't. Jesus, Paulie, you're as crazy as I am. You shoulda just told me it was you. I gotcha, Paulie. You're gonna be alright. I'll take ya to the hospital. C'mon lemme see the other sidea your face. Yeah, you're gonna need stitches. Shit, I worked youse over pretty fuckin' good. Edie and Aggie are gonna fuckin' kill me. C'mon kid. Let's go. I swear I fucking keep that goddamn Brooklyn General in business."

"I can't walk."

"Then I'll help ya. Put your arm around my shoulders. That's' right, kid. Car's right over here."

"You'd do that for me? Take me to the hospital an' take me home like we ain't through? Even after what I did?"

"Who said we was through? Did I say we was through?" Eddie asked.

"You mean, you ain't gonna disown me?"

In spite of everything, the Comedian laughed.

"Depends, kid. What did you do to my partner? Tell me the truth. I ain't gonna killya, but if you done somethin' funny, then yeah, we're through. I'll still take youse to the hospital. I owe youse that. Get in the car nice and easy, Paulie. That's' right. Move your leg, I'm closin' the door."

The Comedian hurried around the car and got in the driver's seat and slammed the door shut.

Paulie was goddamn bleeding all over everything, but upholstery can be cleaned.

"I didn't do nothin', Uncle Eddie. I didn't do nothin' dirty to her, I swear. I swear on Ma's life. After I took off my mask, she looked at me funny and then she was askin' me for it, an' I was so beat up and scared, I couldn't have done shit. Honest to God. I don't know what came over her."

"I do. You look like me. Fuckin' crazy broad. Jesus, Paulie, ya can't bleed like that all the way back to the city."

The Comedian got out of the car again and came back with a tackle box that had gauze and bandages in it.

"You sure you ain't gonna quit talkin' to me, forever?" Paulie asked.

Eddie put some butterfly clamps on the cuts on his nephew's chin and on his face, and then a couple of gauze pads, and taped them down, tearing the medical tape with his teeth.

He spoke to him as he worked.

"Paulie, you got any idea the kinda lousy, dirty, evil horrendous shit I've done since 1938? Which ain't shit compared to what my enemies have done. You think after all that I'm gonna disown you because of some small-time shit like this? We're family, fa' Chrissakes!" Eddie explained.

"I'm sorry. I really screwed the pooch this time."

Eddie put the first aid box in the back seat.

"Ya sure did. Putcher fuckin' safety belt on, we're gonna be drivin' real fast. .Jesus H. Christ, Paulie. Stay still. Don't move your head around. You still wanna smoke?"

"Yeah." Paulie said.

His uncle got out one of his cigarettes and lit it for him, and Paulie slowly brought it to his mouth.

The Comedian drove away, heading for the expressway as fast as he could go.

***

In his street clothes, Eddie Blake spent the next three hours in various waiting rooms at Brooklyn General while various doctors gave his nephew x-rays and tests and kept examining him, over and over again.

The emergency dentist put two of Paulie's teeth back in his jaw and did temporary fillings on three more that had been cracked, telling Paulie to make an appointment with his regular dentist to get a couple of crowns.

The good news was that his jaw wasn't broken, and he didn't need a blood transfusion, even though Eddie had volunteered to be the donor.

His most serious injuries were a concussion and a hairline fracture of the cheekbone.

Neither those or the other relatively minor lumps cuts and bruises to the rest of his body would have any far-reaching consequences.

They put four stitches in his cheek, and eight in his chin, and gave Tylenol-3 and penicillin to his Uncle, told Eddie to keep Paul in bed for a day or two, and then sent them on their way.

Paul's only complaint was that they had to shave off his goatee, and that he wouldn't be able to grow it back until the stitches came out.

It was the longest drive home of Paul Blake's life.

He sat there, smoking, stoically while Uncle Eddie yelled and screamed at him and beat the steering wheel.

Just because he wasn't going to kill Paulie or disown him, it didn't mean he wasn't extremely fucking angry.

"Look at yourself, Paulie! Pull down that visor and fuckin' lookit yourself! An' ease up on the whiskey. Ya can't drink whiskey an' take pills with codeine in them, you'll kill yourself!"

"Codiene!" Paulie exclaimed.

He opened the window and threw the pills out.

"Fuck that shit! I don't wanna end up no junkie. I got lotsa regular Tylenol an' Excederin at home. Jesus, I look pretty bad."

"Yeah. You do. And you know what? You're fuckin' lucky that you're friends with Liv Napier. Because if Jack wasn't lookin' after youse, you woulda got some beatings in that joint that made this one look like a kiss from a broad! What did I tell youse in Grossmann's about your head gettin' fulla bad idea that seemed like a good idea at the time? Huh? Well?"

"I guess I wasn't payin' attention. I thought about it when I was at Arkham, though. How you was right."

"You bet your ass I was right! I toleja to stay on the up and up, and wudja do? Time in Arkham for knockin' over a drugstore in a pair of your sister's tights!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Eddie. But I didn't know you and the superhero that Mom and Aunt Aggie work for were the same cat until I stepped outside that store, and there you were. I remember thinking, Holy Christ, why is my Uncle Eddie dressed up like the Comedian? Holy shit, my Uncle Eddie is the Comedian. Holy fuck, if he finds out it's me under this ski mask, he's gonna be really pissed. So, then I just ran. I'm glad your partner put my mask back on and I prayed you wouldn't take it off. I never meant it to go that far. It just kinda, got away from me."

"And I suppose you let those nuts in there get to youse, an work on ya, pull you into their crazy fuckin' schemes?"

"I wont talk. I know better, now. I ain't doin' shit. But I still won't talk." Paul said.

He knew that much.

Eddie Blake sighed, resignedly.

"You don't have to talk. And I ain't got enough breath left to scream at youse, anymore. Relax, kid. You're lucky. This is a catered affair. I was settin' the Green Jackal up to take a big fall, but now that I know it's you, well, you leave that part up to me. It actually works out a little bit better, cos now I know you'll go along with the plan and nothin' can go wrong. You play along with what you were told in there, and then you do what I tell you to do out here, and you'll be alright. Okay?"

"You mean you set me up? Your own fuckin' nephew?" Paulie snapped

"How the fuck was I supposed to know that my own fuckin' nephew was a half-assed supervillain? No wonder Aggie and Edie have been so worried. They prob'ly think I'm gonna fuckin' kill you when I find out."

"I'm surprised you didn't."

"Yeah, well, you're lucky it was that crazy bitch partner of mine makin' a pass at you. If I thought for a fuckin' minute, Paulie that you…never mind. Look, you may be a crazy motherfucker, but you took your medicine like a man, and you even got a punch or two in. That's pretty good, kid. You have been payin' attention, all these years. ut you listen to me, Paulie. After this shit's over, you had better hang up your goddamn tights. Nobody in our family went the way your piece of shit grandfather did, and you ain't gonna be the first. You try this again. I'm done with ya. I don't know youse no more. And I won't hafta killya, cause those fuckin' guys you wanna run with, they'll do it. Okay?"

Paul nodded like an idiot.

"I already made up my mind about that. I was done."

"It's like the mob, kid. Once you get into those guys, you're never done. But I can get ya out. You get your ass back to school and get your fuckin' degree, and you stay on the up and up or I'll really knock the shit outa you. Are we square?"

"Yeah. We're square. D'you think you can forgive me, Uncle Eddie?"

"Awww shit, Paulie, it's not so bad. At least it didn't have nothin' to do with big-time dope or the rackets or you ain't a goddamn Commie, or a fag, or somethin'. I said we was square and I meant it. Alright? Let's go in and face the music."

"Umm, Uncle Eddie, this girl, yunno, Rosie? Ya remember Rosie?"

"Sure. She's that crazy Puerto Rican broad of yours who goes to Brooklyn Law School and works in the nudie booth for kicks. Likes it with the costume on, huh? Crazy broads. They all want it with the costume on."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I go out in my civvies, half the time it's fuck you, old man. I go out in the costume, shit, I get more ass than a toilet seat."

"You think maybe I could switch sides? Be a hero, instead?"

"That what you really want?"

Paulie nodded, furiously, which almost made him pass out.

"More'n anything else in the whole fuckin' world, Uncle Eddie."

"How come I ain't surprised? C'mon let's get in the house. You gotta lotta work to do if you wanna prove to me you can make it as a mask. "

***

They tried to go in, quietly, but the dog began to make a big fuss over seeing two of his favourite people, and woke the whole house.

Edie heard her brother's voice and her son's and she could see that Eddie was helping Paulie up the front steps.

She was waiting in the kitchen, for them, and when she saw Paul, bandaged up, with blood all over his clothes like he took a bath in it she lost it.

"Eddie, you sunnuvabitch, wudja do to my boy!"

Edie screamed, hugged Paul, picked up a carving knife, threw it fairly close to her brother's head, and then started tossing dishes at him.

Eddie found it funny, it lightened things up a little after him almost killing poor Paulie.

He kept putting his armbands in front of his face to deflect the dishes.

Ivan let her go until she picked up the cast-iron skillet from the stove, and then he held her back.

Aggie was charging into the fray with the rolling pin, and Ivan restrained her with his other arm.

"Patrick! Get ass downstairs now! Mom's trying to kill Uncle Eddie!"

"I didn't know it was him! Why the fuck didn't you tell me that Paulie was the Green Jackal! You told me he gotta fuckin' job! You think I woulda beat my own nephew up that bad? Who d'you think you're talkin' to, Pop? " The Comedian yelled back at Edie.

"Whaddya mean, you didn't know it was Paulie? He looks just fuckin' like you!"

"I mean he put his hood over his head and hid in the goddamn shadows, an' after I popped him a coupla times, he started swingin' at me! You shoulda told me, Edie!"

"She thought you would kill him, I tell her, you nuts, Eddie won't kill Paulie. I don't know where he get this supervillain idea. We make little joke at breakfast and he takes it seriously." Ivan commented.

Patrick came into the room, in his underwear, rubbing his eyes.

"Settle down, Ma. Uncle Eddie stopped hittin' Paulie when he realised it was him, prob'ly. And he took him to the hospital, right? I'm mean Paulie's on his feet, he can't be hurt that bad. They woulda kept him in the hospital. I mean, Uncle Eddie hardly touched him. When were we in Nam, I seen him beat guys up. This ain't shit." Patrick pointed out.

"Yeah. And I'm gonna get the Society of Supervillans off his ass, too. Relax." Eddie finished.

Ivan let Edie and Aggie go, and Edie marched over to her son and slapped him on the uninjured side of his face.

"Owwwwww!" Paul howled

Eddie tried to get between them and Edie shoved him out of her way.

"Edie, Jesus, he's had enough! He's got a fuckin' concussion, and he had a whole buncha dental work an' stitches, youse can't be slappin' him around!" the Comedian protested.

"Shut the fuck up, Eddie! And you, Paulie, where d'you think you get off, takin' a swing at you Uncle? He shoulda shot ya a coupla times, knock some sense into youse! Whaddya you wanna be? A piecea shit criminal like my old man, may he rot in Hell! Wudja do to this family? Embarrassed your father. Embarrassed your Uncle Eddie who gave us this house, helps put food on our table, puts clothes in your back! Embarrassed your brother who went off to that piecea shit Vietnam to defend his country! You do know he only came back safe and sound cos your Uncle got him on his and Dr. Manhattan's staff, don'cha? And if that ain't bad enough, you made a pass at your Uncle's partner! What's the matter with you? Where's your fuckin' brains? In your pants?" Edie insisted.

"I dunno, Mom. But I'm gonna make it up to everybody. Uncle Eddie's gonna give me a job to do."

"A little job, Edie. I just want him to come up with some dumb ass plan so the Harlequin can come in and save the day."

"Well, you had better not fuck up, young man. You're on my shit list, kiddo. Now, go to your room. Patrick, help your brother get up the stairs. Wait, Are you hungry, Paulie?"

"Kinda. I'm sorry, Ma."

"Well, you lie down and I'll bring you some soup. Did they give you medicine?"

"Uh-huh. Uncle Eddie has it."

"I'll take care of it for you. Okay?"

"Okay, Ma. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"I know you are, Paulie. I forgive you. Honey, I'm just worried about you. You gotta know this isn't the right way for you to go. Everybody makes mistakes, yunno. But you make this right and, please, don't ever do anything criminal, again."

"Okay, Ma. I won't."

Paul let Patrick lead him out of the room.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Eddie. I won't letcha down."

Uncle Eddie was sitting at the table, smoking a cigar, and looking tired and worried and pissed off.

"I know ya won't. Go to bed, now, Paulie."

***

Paul was glad to see his own bed in his own room, relieved that everything was going to work out alright.

There was a package with his name on it waiting on the bed, and he sat down and opened it.

_Dear Green Jackal,_

_We heard you were getting out early, so we sent this to your house, so it would be waiting for you when you got home._

_Ah, to be young again, and starting my career. Those were the days. But, as I've paid dearly in cash to get this letter to you out, sealed and unopened by prying eyes, I'll cut right to the chase._

_You must begin at the beginning. With a name. Green Jackal is good, it has a nice sound to it. Now you need a mythology. Love the way you played up the Anubis thing. Good choice. You'll find that it has great possibilities._

_The next thing you need is an arch-nemesis. I'd cultivate the Harlequin, if I were you. You kids already have a history._

_And, of course, you need a costume. A real costume. Your design is pretty good. For one thing, it's in green and it looks Egyptian. But it has to be more practical, with a belt you can carry things on, and I'd go for a bullet-proof chest plate and codpiece. The Harlequin carries two guns, and she's learned everything she knows at the knee of Mr. Don't Talk, Shoot, the Comedian. That and the cops are always pretty gun happy. _

_Don't change your mask. It was perfect._

_All you need to do, then, is make your final modifications and send them on to me. You'll have your costume in about two weeks, maybe three._

_Now, about your a base of operations, what the superheroes call a "lair". As you know, supervillains do NOT live with their parents in Bensonhurst._

_You can start at the address on the keychain with the enclosed keys. It's sort of a unique-fixer upper opportunity on the waterfront, but we all have to start somewhere, and uptown is uptown, right?_

_When you get your costume, don't go out and mug an old lady or knock over a chicken stand._

_Supervillains do not commit petty, stupid, thuggish crimes. Use the time you have while you costume is being made to come up with your first diabolical scheme. Since this is your first, KISS. Keep It Simple, Stupid. Make sure your scheme establishes your identity and mythology, that its showy and catches the attention of the press, shocking and titillating to the monkeymass, and, of course lucrative._

_You don't seem like the violent type, so, as we discussed, don't go against your nature and do something brutal. If you try to over-reach, it won't work._

_My lawyer will also be contacting you. Remember, always make it nuts enough to plead insanity. Real prison is no place for a supervillain. _

_As for the money, this is your supervillain seed money. You can buy your friend Skinny back from the mob; sounds like he'd make an excellent henchman. Use the rest of the money for whatever you need to outfit your warehouse and plan your first operation. _

_If you have any money left over, keep it, with the Society's complements. Crime pays, handsomely, and we have a lot more where that came from._

_Good luck embarking on your career. Your fellow supervillians and I are all cheering for you and we'll keep our eyes on the television and the papers._

_Jack Napier, AKA Joker_

Paul read the letter two or three times, looking at what must have been a million or close to it in thousands stuffed into the envelope, and the keys in his hand, he thought about sending it all back to the Joker, apologising and saying he lost his nerve.

After all, if he took the money, and the keys, and the help from his fellow supervillians, it was like when his friend Skinny started running with the Gambinos.

When you were in, you were in, and you went out, feet first, that's what Uncle Eddie said.

Paul put the envelope under the bed and went to sleep.

He had a small glimmer of hope in his mind as he dropped off.

Maybe, somehow, I can be the Green Jackal, after all.

**III: Eddie**

Long after Paulie was up in his room, resting, grateful to be home in his own bed, the Comedian was sitting at what he still thought of as his kitchen table, in his street clothes spattered with poor Paulie's blood, one hand a fist in his hair and the other propelling drink after drink down his throat.

Anguish clawed at his throat, despair choked him, and he fought to swallow his own wild, desperate laughter at the cruel joke that was on him.

"Gimme another beer, Edie."

"Eddie, you had enough. You gotta drive to Washington, tonight."

"I'll go in the morning. Onna plane, with the rest of 'em. Fuck it. I keep seein' him, all beat up and staggerin' around and tellin' me I was gonna hafta kill him. Just my fucking luck. Hey, Eddie, your nephew's a supervillain. And he wants to fuck your woman. Or worse, she wants to fuck him. Joke's on you, Eddie. Jesus, Edie, I coulda killed him. Gimme another beer. I'll buy you more."

"Eddie, that's the whole case, and most of that bottle of Southern Comfort!"

"So? I'll have one more shot and one more beer and I'll go home."

"Don't be so rough on yourself, Eddie. We didn't raise him to be a creampuff. He'll be alright. And you didn't know it was Paulie. You thought you were beatin' up on some nut who was gonna try to do to your partner what Pop did to me. I dunno. Maybe you knocked some sense into Paulie. Nothing else has worked. I'm sorry I been such a bitch, lately, but you can't imagine what we've been going through since this started."

"So, that's what's been puttin' a bug up your ass, you and Aggie. You shoulda told me. Why didn't you fuckin' tell me?"

"I was ashamed! I can't believe he did such a thing. Eddie, this plan you got for Paul, is it safe? He's in over his head on this shit, he's not like you and Liv."

"I'll make it safe. Fuckin' foolproof. Don't worry. I won't let nothin' bad happen to Paulie. It's not his fault. I know who's fault it is. Fuckin' dirty little shanty Irish whore!"

Eddie choked on his words.

The last time Edie had seen her brother so upset was the night he tried to rape Sally Jupiter.

She had put the little ones to bed and was just about to go home when Eddie came staggering in, with blood all over his clothes and his face bashed in, shouting for another drink before he fell into the same chair at the same table.

He'd acted the same way, pounding down drink after drink and staring into his glass like he'd lost everything he had in the world and it was somehow going to reappear at the bottom of it.

She pulled a chair up next to him and sat down.

"Eddie, she probably didn't even realise it was him. It was probably some kinda mistake."

"Bullshit!"

He had that break in the anger in his voice, like he was close to tears, murder, or both.

He turned his face to hers and it was full of pain and disbelief.

It made Edie think of horrible moments from their childhood, seeing that look on Eddie's face; it was the same goddamn look.

"Paulie's one of the kid's best friends. She knew him before she knew me. He thinks he introduced us. Who the fuck did she think it was under the mask? Santa Claus? My nephew. My own fuckin' nephew. Jesus, I love that girl, Edie, how could she fuckin' do this to me? I knew shre was fast, I never cared about a woman bein' fast, but I never knew whse was such a fuckin' whore!"

"Eddie, listen to me. You're drunk. Go home, sleep it off, go see her in the morning. Give the kid a chance to explain herself. That girl loves you too, Eddie. Jesus, it scares me the way that black hearted crazy little Mick loves you. You tell her she's a fuckin' whore, you'll both end up dead."

"She's got one helluva way of showing it to me, Evie."

Abruptly, the Comedian lurched to his feet.

"Eddie, listen to me. Don't do anything crazy."

"I ain't Pop. I won't."

"Eddie, we ain't talking about Ma, God rest her soul, or some ordinary broad. I mean it. That girl could kill you, and I know goddamn well you get mad enough you could kill just about anybody. I don't wanna come over there and have to scrape what's left of the two of you off the walls after you're done tearing each other limb from fucking limb. Why dontcha just stay here tonight? Sleep it off."

"She ain't there. She thinks I went to DC. I gotta go home. This fuckin' day has gotta end."

***

He couldn't remember the last time he was this drunk, he was so drunk he could hardly stagger in his front door.

When he did manage to do so, he noticed Liv was there.

Bad for her.

Very bad.

She was sitting on his couch, in her underwear, which was, invariably, his old underwear, one of his cast-off undershirts and a pair of threadbare old boxer shorts with the waistband rolled over a few times, drinking his Scotch.

Watching his TV.

The Comedian was drunk, blind, stinking drunk, and he was sick with himself over what he'd done to Paulie, sick and angry and full of rage and frustration.

After the night he had, Liv was the first and the last person he wanted to see.

Especially considering that as he drove back to his apartment, he was thinking about how Liv had seen the Green Jackal without his mask on.

What the fuck was she thinking? Did she know it was Paulie and decide she wanted to fuck him, to make up for beating the shit out of him? Or was it like Clark Kent and his goddamn glasses, did she not recognise Paulie except for in some remote place in her crazy, big jumped-up jet powered brain because he was the last person she expected to be under a supervillain's mask? Or maybe, Eddie thought, she just couldn't handle that it was Paulie under the mask and somehow when she saw a face that looked so much like him that it was him she saw.

Maybe she tore off the mask and saw it was Paulie and she got so hot in that burning red five alarm fire itchy pussy of hers at the sight of him in a costume, and figured, next best thing to Eddie, oh boy, here we go.

After all, Paulie looked just like him.

Except he was a hell of a lot younger.

But still, seeing her casually spread all over his couch, all tits and ass in the threadbare old boxers and the worn undershirt made him want to fuck her, and he knew goddamn well it wouldn't take anything more than a "hiya, kid" and a little rub of his thumb at the seam of the boxers between her legs to get her going.

On the other hand, he thought of her performing her alchemy on Paulie, bewitching him, dragging him into all kinds of shit he couldn't handle, including her, all because Paulie looked just like him.

And Eddie looked just like his father, the devil himself.

_And that kid is your red-haired Whore of Babylon, and you love her, you crazy bastard._

The Comedian was furious with Liv that she was such a heartless cock-hungry slut and furious with himself about how that was the way he liked her and it made him sick that they were both such a couple of rotten evil bastards that he could stand there and look at her and know she tried to fuck his nephew after she beat the holy hell out of him and still want to tear her clothes off her body.

He felt the way she hurt him so deep in his guts he put his hand over his belly. During the Big One, he'd taken a bullet in the guts. It was just him and Cap and Logan, out there, and Logan dug the bullet out of him with his bony claws while Cap held him down, and they patched him up as best as he could and he laid in that trench for three days before help came, in pain so bad that sometimes he had to lie there and swear and curse and beat the ground and scream.

He felt the same.

A terrible rage washed over Eddie Blake, and he was close to exploding.

"Didn't I tell you earlier today to get the fuck outa here?" he spat at his partner, angrily.

The tone of his voice would have been enough to make most women and probably a lot of men cower in fright, but the kid didn't bat an eyelash.

"I thought you were gonna be in DC. You told me to look after the place while you were gone."

"Oh, so you're just gonna move right in then, huh? You got your grease monkey in my bed, already? Or some fan of yours you picked up? Lyin' on your fat ass, drinkin' my booze." Eddie snarled.

"Fuckin' relax, willya, Eddie? I went ta work, I went ta Grossmann's, Cap and Tony were there, I ate dinner with 'em and I came here. That's all."

"Yeah, I'll fuckin' bet it was! You always got your fuckin' eye on old Shellhead! That's your problem, kid. You can't goddamn do anything normal, or decent without fuckin' whorin' it up! Like when you saved my life in that fight. I sent ya to a S.H.I.E.L.D. joint ta get better and wudja do? Busted out and went to Tijuana to go on a binge. Drinkin tequila and blowin' sailors, knowin' you! Then after you got tossed in the clink, and Stark was there, dyin', sure ya saved his life, but then as soon as you two was outa there, ya hadda fuck him, too! I know when I came down there ta get ya, you was in bed with him. Well? Were you?"

"Eddie, that was like three years ago."

The Comedian angrily snapped the TV off.

"Tell me? Didja fuck him? I wanna know, ya little slut!" he yelled.

Liv threw her glass on the ground and it broke.

"Yeah! I did! So fuckin' what?" Liv insisted.

The Comedian's face went white with rage.

He was so furious he could hardly choke out his words.

He almost went for his gun, he would have shot her had he not wanted to tear her limb from limb with his bare hands.

Paulie.

Her betrayal burned him; it burned in his belly like he had swallowed a hot coal.

It was a joke, she was a joke, they were a joke, it was all a horrible, hideous joke and it was on him.

Inarticulate, the Comedian grunted a strangled scream, picked up something made of glass from the glass coffee table and hurled it against the wall.

"Goddamn you! You…you…goddamn you to hell, you little fuckin' whore! That's why I never wanted to touch you in the first place, I knew what a fuckin' dirty little whore you were! That night I was drivin' you back to the rehab, I knew, I knew you just got outa bed with Stark, ya hadn't even taken a goddamn bath, you were probably drinkin' whiskey and fuckin' him all day long, and if I woulda took my cock out like you wanted me to, you wouldn't have cared! I coulda done anything to ya, I couldaa stopped the car and thrown ya in the back seat and fucked the shit outa ya an you woulda ate it up with a spoon, ya woulda been suckin' my dick all the way home! Ya don't care! Ya don't care who you fuck or when you fuck 'em because you're a no-good whore! Ya always have been and ya always will be! I tried with you, kid! I gave ya everything but my goddamn blood! An' you stabbed me in the goddamn back! And it's not enough you gotta fuck up my life, ya gotta bring fuckin' innocent people into it, who don't deserve ta get mixed up with the likes of youse! I know, I seeya, I seeya for what the fuck you are, you…you… FUCKIN' DIRTY LITTLE SHANTY IRISH WHORE!"

Liv just looked at him in shock for a minute, and her lip trembled a tiny bit and her eyes looked moist and then she leapt up off the couch.

"I FUCKIN' WELL AM NOT, YOU FUCKIN' OLD BASTARD! You goddamn act like I'm out there suckin' every cock in town! And what about you? I had three girls on the phone today wantin to send pictures of you fuckin' 'em six ways for Sunday to the goddamn newspapers, you goddamn dumb motherfucker! So I like to fuck? I admit it! Guilty as fuckin' charged!"

Eddie's arm shot out from his side and he put his hand around her throat.

It almost went all the way around her neck so he could touch his fingers to his thumb.

He didn't squeeze, he didn't shake her, he wasn't applying any pressure at all; he just had his hand around her throat the way a rattlesnake shakes its tail before it strikes.

"I got my hand around your throat, little girl. And if I want to, I can cut off the air you're suckin' in to backtalk me. You know I could snap your fuckin' neck with a flick of my wrist? Let me fuckin' tell you somethin', little girl. You had better be afraid of me." He snarled.

Liv just stood there, clenching and unclenching her fists, stammering in pain and shock and outrage.

Anger overtook her, blind, towering anger. She was almost in shock as how the boiling rage filled her; she felt like her whole body was engulfed in flames, like she could have shot fire from her mouth and heat rays from her eyes.

She laughed at him, her eyes flashing with rage, laughed the most uncannily Joker Jack laugh he'd ever heard come out of her throat and seized his arm in both hands at the same time.

"Now Eddie, you know I'm strong enough to snap your fuckin' arm just like a twig long before you get around to breakin' my neck. So what the fuck do you wanna do about it, Eddie? You wanna come in here and call me a fuckin shanty Irish whore for no goddamn reason and make me cower and beg you not to hit me? You want me to roll the fuck over and cower and scream for you not to hurt me like Laurie's mom, when you beat the fuck out of her and tried to rape her because you kissed her neck and she decked you? Or you want me to just stand there like that Cong girl you shot because she messed up your pretty face, just stand there and beg you not to kill me! Fuck you, Eddie! If I was Sally I woulda kicked you in the balls right after I busted you in the face, so goddamn hard you woulda started ta cry! An if I was that Cong broad I woulda never bothered with a bottle. I woulda shot you right in the dick with your own gun and waited until you begged me to blow your head off before I did it! I'm not afraid of you, Eddie Blake, and you can't make me fear you! You wanna go? You wanna fight? LET'S FIGHT! YOU WANNA DO IT FOR REAL? YOU WANNA SEE WHO WINS AND WHO DIES? I'M READY! I'M READY, YA SUNNUVABITCH!"

They both jumped back, circling the table, circling each other, like two gladiators in the arena.

Neither one of them knew why they weren't at each other's throats, punching, kicking, screaming, breaking bones and bruising flesh and spattering each other's blood and brains all over the walls; they both just glared at each other with shocked, angry faces twisted in pain.

Is it true that some things can never be forgiven?

No.

Sally forgave him.

The Comedian lunged towards the Harlequin with a horrible, strangled sound and tossed aside the glass coffee table that stood between them. It smashed against the far wall as he yanked her into his arms and kissed her, desperately, one arm around her waist clasping her body against his, the other in her long, beautiful red hair, looking for something in her besides that look of rage and bloodlust on her face.

And the Harlequin held him tightly, she kissed him back, furiously and pressed her body against his, almost sobbing into his mouth with relief that they weren't murdering each other.

Both of their faces were wet with tears that neither of them wanted to admit to crying.

"Shit, I'm sorry, baby. I'm just drunk. I'm sorry." Eddie blurted out, still hugging Liv as hard as he could.

"Why'd you call me a whore, Eddie? Jesus Christ whydja do that? Dontcha know, comin' from you, that's the worst goddamn thing ya coulda ever said to me?"

"Don't cry, Liv. I didn't mean it. I love you, baby. You're not a whore, you never were. Anybody calls you a whore I'll tear his lungs out. Jesus, Liv, tell me you love me. Tell me it's me you want. I gotta hear you say it. You're killin' me."

"I love you, Eddie. I mean it. I swear to God I do. And you know I want you. I want you right now. I'd rather kiss you than kill you."

Eddie kissed her again, staggering blindly towards her.

He was so drunk he couldn't hardly stand but he was still flipping her undershirt up and pulling her boxer shorts down.

She was naked, naked and beautiful and confused with all her long red hair falling all over her curvy little body, and her eyes were wet with tears.

He fell on his knees in front of her because he was too drunk to stand , so drunk he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth as he started to kiss her little white throat and nibble at her soft earlobes and roll her pink nipples between his fingers.

"I love you, Liv. I love you so much it makes me fuckin' crazy. I love how mean you are and how horny you are, I feel like the Devil and God himself got together and made you just for me so you could be my little angel from Hell."

She moaned and it was music in his ears and he lowered her down onto the carpet and he was licking her pink nipples and sucking them into his mouth and he had his fingers tangled in her wet red bush, rubbing her clit and pushing into her hungry little pussy.

Anything to make him forget how close he came to killing her.

He was drunk and clumsy, slobbering all over her still mumbling crazy things, dirty things, stupid things.

"I wish I wasn't so drunk baby I would fuck you an' you smell so good an I love you so goddamn much."

"Oh shit, I love you too, Eddie. You're makin' me crazy. You know how long it's been."

She had her hands on his head and she was trying to push it down over her belly, and he heard himself laughing, a drunken, low rumbling sound.

He fell across her thighs, and still sliding his fingers into her pussy, feeling her pull on them and squeeze them like they were his cock he lowered his head and sucked lazily on her swollen wet clit and licked her, and she shuddered and moaned and he laughed drunkenly into her thigh.

"Damn, baby, you taste like a teenager. Mmm, just like sweet teenage pussy I could lick you all night I wish I wasn't so fucking drunk."

He almost went out, with his head on her leg, but she had her hands in his hair and she was running them all over his back and his shoulders, straining and moaning, bucking her hips, and she was desperate and swearing and screaming.

"Oooooo, lick me, suck me off, make me come, please, please, I'm almost there…"

His balls were already blue and aching but then he felt his cock begin to stiffen against his thigh and he couldn't believe it because he was so fucking drunk but that was Liv.

He drew himself up off of her and sat back on his haunches, looking her spread all soft and wet and naked all over the floor, panting.

"Jesus, Liv, you know how much I had to drink tonight? But look at me. You got my dick hard. Well, hard enough. Holy shit." He chuckled.

"Then why dontcha fuck me, Eddie? You don't know how goddamn bad I need you to fuck me, right now. You ain't fucked me since I had my Troubles. Please, Eddie. Please!"

He sort of fell over her.

"Goddamnit, don't fuckin' beg me for it. I don't know if I can."

She swore, and wrapped her hard, tattooed little paw around his stiff cock and squeezed it, guiding it to the mouth of her pussy.

"I know you can, Eddie. You're the best goddamn man I ever knew. Show me, goddamn it, show me how much ya love me, ya big, mean beautiful sunnuvabitch."

_What the hell's the matter with you, Eddie? Fuck her. Fuck her hard, make sure she knows what kinda man you are._

Eddie grinned down at her, he laughed, he pushed her legs open as far as they would go and brought his mouth down on hers and drove his cock into her.

Liv yowled and her legs snapped high up around his waist and her arms wound around his broad back.

"Ohhh Eddie ohhh jeeeeezizz yessssss, aw shit, aww fuck, Eddie that's the fuckin' spot…"

"That's right, baby. Squeeze me. Come for me, honey. Come all over me…"

Too drunk to shut the fuck up, but not too drunk to fuck.

Probably too drunk to come.

He could feel her frustration, he could hear it in her ragged, frantic breaths

Keep it up, soldier.

Make her come.

Liv started to grunt and groan and keen and then she just started to wail and he was pounding her like a broken jackhammer and she was pushing him back so hard trying to get them both off. Her ass was bouncing off the carpet; he had to hold her down, gritting his teeth and cursing because he felt like he was going to pass out and he was losing his hard-on and he was so damn close.

And finally, Liv came, nice and sweet and hard and loud, like she always did.

"Goddamit, I'm so close, I'm so fucking drunk!" he yelled.

"Yeah. Yeah, an' I'm gonna make you come, too, Eddie."

She lowered herself over his thighs and went to work for an embarrassingly long time, sucking him off long and slow and hard, first with her hand around his cock, sucking him and jacking him off into her mouth, then taking him all the way in so her chin was on his balls, and he was so goddamn close and when he started fucking her mouth she started whimpering and he put his hand between her legs and fingered her, rubbing her clit with his thumb and when he felt her coming in his hand, that was it, and finally he got hammer a nail into the wall hard and shot his wad and everything almost went black.

And then it was over and Eddie was sitting back on his haunches on the goddamn floor with rugburn on his knees, feeling drunk and dizzy but good, goddamn good with Liv spread out all over where the table used to be.

Everything that was on the table was all over the floor and there was glass everywhere and some of it had gotten into her hair.

He wobbled to his feet.

"Don't move, kid. You got glass in your hair."

Liv just laid there, eyes closed, her whole body vibrating, humming to herself.

Eddie had to hang onto the TV to get around her to drop the glass into the garbage.

Liv got up and sat on the couch.

"Jesus, Eddie, you are really drunk. You're as drunk as I used ta get, back in tha day, and that's drunk. I never seen ya this drunk. C'mon, siddown before ya fall down. What the hell's got into you? Whadyya mean I'm killin' you? I ain't done nothin' to youse I know about. Ya come home so drunk ya can't stand up, ya make me mad enough ta kill you, then ya start talking dirty and throw the first fuck into me I had in a month. I know ya been in a fight. You gotta fat lip. And you got two fingers taped together."

"Kid, go make me some goddamn coffee. I gotta talk to you."

Liv made coffee, and she brought the pot in and two mugs.

They both like their coffee strong and black.

Eddie had made his way to the couch and Liv sat beside him.

"I had a bad night. Beat the shit outa somebody I shouldn't have. And I got some fuckin' bad news. Real bad fuckin' news. Another joke on Eddie Blake." He said.

"You did what you had to do. I'm sure of it."

"Yeah, that's what I'm trying to tell myself. Hey, kid, when you took the mask offa that Green Jackal, did he look like anybody you know?"

Eddie watched his partner turn a whiter shade of pale.

She looked sick and scared and guilty all at the same time, and her hands began to tremble so much she had to put her mug down.

"Huh? Oh, well, I kinda had this funny idea he looked familiar, yeah, but it was dark in that basement and we was fighting and, yunno, your mind plays tricks on yuh, and…"

"Just tell me who you thought it was."  
"For a minute, Eddie, he reminded me of you. Then, naaah. It's stupid."

Liv's heart started to pound in her chest.

All those doubts she had tried to drink away that terrible night with the knife in her ribs came back, all those little coincidences she had been trying to ignore as she concentrated on getting better and getting her shit together.

Eddie kept talking.

"So I went to Arkham to take delivery of the Green Jackal. I was plannin' on beatin' it out of him, what was it that he done to you or you done to him. He turned out to be some big dumb punk in a fatigue jacket with the hood pulled low over his face. It was dark, and he tried to run from me, and I beat him up pretty good and told him he could crawl to the car, and that's when he started yelping that he wasn't a punk and I'd have to kill him before he took a dive. I recognised the voice and the sentiments."

"Oh shit."

Liv put her face in her hands.

"Liv, Jesus, how couldja do this to me? You're fuckin' killin' me! You wanna tell me just what the fuck made you decide you wanted Paulie? I mean I can probably figure it out, but, just tell me, anyway."

Liv looked at him like he had spoken in Skrull.

"What? What the fuck? Is that…that's what was botherin' you?"

"It's been botherin me what made you wanna fuck some guy you were beatin' up. Now it bothers me even more. I'd rather you shot me. If you fuckin' lost your temper an' broke my nose, or stabbed me or you fuckin shot me, I could forgive youse. But you stabbed me in the fuckin back, kid, right through the fuckin' heart. You're killin me."

"Eddie, you won't believe me. You already got your mind made up that I'm a-"

"Don't say it. You ain't. Look, kid, I already don't believe that Paulie's the Green Jackal, that I beat the shit outa him, that I got so slobberin' drunk I came home and called youse a whore an almost killed ya and then I started fuckin' cryin an' blubberin and made ya tell me ya loved me like some goddamn old woman and then I was sayin' all that crazy shit to ya while I was doin I don't know what to ya on the motherfuckin' floor. Tell me. I gotta know."

"Okay! I did not make a pass at Paulie. I absolutely 100 per cent did not. This is what happened. So I'm beatin' this guy. This Green Jackal. He's tryin to get away, an' I'm beatin him so he can't. He's got the knife in his hand, but he ain't usin it. Then I don't see the knife anymore but I see the bottom part on the ground and so I thought the blade was there on the ground too and all the sudden my ribs hurt. And then he turns me over and he's on top of me and he's got both my hands pinned down and I'm cursin' myself because I was fightin' him like he was a mook and I could take him whenever I wanted and now he's got me. I thought he was gonna try and fuck me, and I wasn't about to let him do that. I figured once he got close enough I'd bite his fuckin throat out, but I figured he was a goddamn mook anyway, I'd give him the old fuck you. I ripped his mask off and dared him to do it. I was so mad I almost wanted him to try something so I could kill him just for thinkin' about it. Mad and scared. Well, the guy gets this horrified look on his face, and I realised he was terrified and just holdin' me down so he could get away. Then he spoke to me, he told me I was crazy and quit hitting him. I took a goddamn good look at him, then and I thought I recognised the face and the voice, but I didn't wanna recognise him so I got my hand out from under his and knocked him out and shoved his mask back on him so I wouldn't have to look at him, anymore. Then I went out and got as drunk as possible so I would forget all about it and you know the rest. I did not try to fuck Paulie. Under no fuckin' circumstances. "

She hadn't made a pass at him at all.

Jesus, he got on top of her and held her down.

And you called her a fucking dirty little shanty Irish whore, you prick.

Eddie felt like a real piece of shit for that, but when he realised that it wasn't true, and he didn't have to face almost killing his nephew and Liv betraying him in the same night, he felt a lot better.

Then he felt a lot worse.

He was suddenly sorry he hadn't hit Paulie harder.

That little prick, did he lie to me?

Maybe he did.

I woulda lied to me if I was him.

How many times had he told the kid, you don't ever try and force yourself on a woman, no matter what you think she wants, it's a piece of shit thing to do and it's trouble that follows you the rest of your life?

Then again, Paulie swore up and down to him that he didn't do shit.

"Are you sure about that, Liv? Don't try to cover Paulie's ass because he's your friend. I wanna know if he was trying to fuck you. I ain't gonna kill him. I'm gonna tell his mother and she and I are gonna make the beating I just gave him look like a kiss, and I'm gonna throw him right outa the goddamn family, but I won't kill him. Tell me the truth."

"I swear, Eddie, that's the truth. Paulie wasn't trying to fuckin' rape me. He wasn't. He would never do nothin' like that to nobody. I mean he was wearing tights, I woulda known if he had fucking on his mind. He didn't even know he stabbed me. He didn't even know it was me. Fucking was the furthest thing from his mind. He rolled me over and held my hands down because he was scared I was going to beat him to death. He was terrified and he wanted me to quit hitting him, and I was pretty scared, too. I almost killed him. If I hadn't taken the mask off…I don't wanna think about it."

"An' he almost killed you! Goddamn dumb fucking kid! I told him this ain't like some comic book or some movie, what the fuck was he thinkin'! Then he tangles with me like his fuckin' stunt double is gonna come in an' hand me my ass.! I'd like to say I just beat some sense into him, but I don't know."

"So, what are we gonna do, partner?"

"I'm still tryna figure that out. I'm gonna go to DC for the Summit, and while I'm there, I'm gonna make sure Paulie's record stays clean. I'll talk to Fury. He'll straighten it out. Paulie doesn't seem to be real serious about this supervillain shit. He wants out. Or at least he says he does."

"So, I guess you want me to stay here, finish my projects, and see if I can find out if Paulie's just shinin' you on."

"That's right, kid. You still got the advantage over him. He don't know that his good buddy Napalm is the Harlequin. Let it slip to him that you know he's the Green Jackal. Tell him you're old man tipped you. And there's one more thing."

"Eddie, I don't think I can take one more thing."

"I got Paulie convinced he's gotta do one more job, to help me test my partner, the Harlequin, to see if she's really ready for the big time. But what I'm really lookin' for is him to come up with some crack-brained fuckin' scheme and you come in and foil it. Like you said, somethin's gotta snap him out of it. So don't be too gentle with him, either. Cos Paulie's entertaining delusions of changing sides of the cape. He might have what it takes, I dunno, but I need a shark to show him he's just a minnow, and the water's just as dirty at our end of the pool, no matter what side of the cape you're on."

"And that's me, Eddie?"

"I can't do it, kid. He knows I'm the Comedian. But you're my partner. Next to me, there's no bigger shark in the sea than you."

"Thanks for the complement, partner, but you can't come up with that shit overnight. It had to be planned. Like when a guy gets outa Arkham after a month of a six to twelve sentence. And you get to take special delivery of him. Smells like you and probably the Old Man, and maybe Bruce, too, had a plan hatched to give me a goddamn final exam in being a mask. I find that pretty fuckin' insultin', not to mention it's a double cross-"

"Is it? What if I said it was a double-cross, you not tellin' me right away that you even suspected Greenie was Paulie?"

"That wasn't a double-cross! I didn't wanna say anything to you unless I had proof."

"You didn't look too hard for the proof, kid."

"I had my reasons."

"Yeah. And I had my reasons why I thought ya needed a test. You prob'ly thought I was gonna kill him. I guess Edie thought the same thing. I'm tempted to, the crazy fuck. Him and his dumb stunt almost got you killed, almost got him killed and we almost killed each other. Shit, I wish to Christ I hadn't hit him so fuckin' hard, though. I never raised a hand to his mother, or any of his aunts an' uncles and I never wanted to raise a hand to him, either."

"Don't beat yourself up over it, Eddie. Ya didn't know it was Paulie. And I mean, you an' me, we mixed it up some, and ya didn't lose any sleep over it."

"That's different, Liv. Ya don't realise what a fuckin' lunatic ya was! I'd say shoehorn the wrong way and you'd try an' sucker punch me. I hadda stop youse smashin a guy's head through a jukebox because he said youse picked a lousy song. The only thing you understood was a smack in the chops. That and you did break my nose and put a goddamn gun to my head. An' I had plenty of opportunity since then to smack you around, and I ain't done it. That was Pop's style. Not mine."

"Jesus, Eddie, your father was the worst kind of low-life piece of shit criminal! You ain't nothing like him! It was Paulie's fault. He got himself thrown into the joint and then he didn't tellya it was him. He probably thought it was one of his fuckin' superhero comics. I'll look after him while you're gone, okay? I'm sure whatever he did, he knows better now."

"I appreciate that, kid. What a fuckin' night, huh?"

"Yeah. Hey, for the record Eddie, I meant what I said to ya. Not the bad shit. Well some of the bad shit. But I meant all of the good shit. I did."

"Yeah, me too, kid. C'mon. Let's go get some shut-eye. I can't talk no more, I can't think , either. This night has gotta end."

***

"Hey, kid? You asleep?"

"No, Eddie. I feel…funny. Weird. Bad."

"I'm sorry I even thought you could betray me. I'll never do it again."

"Eddie, don't…"

"No, I mean it, kid. I won't never lose faith in you again, partner."

"I won't never give you a reason to. Jesus, Eddie, I feel awful. Come over heah a little closer."

"Try an' go to sleep."

"Okay."

***

Eddie felt like ashamed when he woke up a few hours later.

Not to mention funny, weird, bad and awful, all at once.

Liv was still asleep.

He couldn't believe he acted like that in front of his partner.

In front of his woman.

Screaming like an idiot.

Crying like a baby.

The thing that really bothered him, though, was that pathetic lousy lay he gave her on the goddamn carpet like some kind of pathetic faggot.

Talking crazy shit out of his head and falling all over himself and slobbering all over her. Talking to her goddamn leg, so she had to beg him to finish the job. Whacking away at her forever because he was too goddamn drunk to come and he could barely keep it up.

What the hell kind of shit was that for a grown man to pull?

And he called her a dirty fucking whore, too.

Some reporter for one of the scandal rags stuck a microphone in his face, once and asked him, "So, Comedian, are you the guy that does the job on your partner? I'll bet she's a real heartbreaker. Sleeps around on you, huh?"

Eddie broke his nose.

And the sunnuvabiutch didn't even use the word whore.

Hell, the kid hadn't done shit, that stupid idiot Paulie made her think he was trying to fuck her when all he wanted to do was get away.

Eddie rolled over and looked at her, lying there sleeping, feeling like he had a lot to make up to her.

The trouble was, he didn't know what to say, or how to say it.

So he woke her up real nice.

She was all warm and half- asleep.

"Eddie you ain't mad at me, are you?" she asked.

"I was drunk, honey. But I'm not drunk now."

She reached for him and he held her close.

"Jesus, Eddie. You're so hard." She giggled.

She was still half-asleep.

Start her out real nice and slow.

He kissed her gently on the lips, and then kissed her ears, and her neck and she warmed up to him real fast.

"Eddie…"

Just touching the tip of his tongue to her taut nipple in little circles and then sucking it into his mouth hard, catching her moan and she opened her legs to him so he could brush his fingers against her clit.

More little circles.

Jesus, she was so wet, already…

"Ohhh, Eddie…"

She had one arm around him and reached the other one over his arm and started stroking his cock.

He slid his fingers into her, pushing up, feeling her stroke them and tug them.

More moans, squeals.

He kissed again, hard, pulling her close and she started rubbing her tits all over his chest.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she sucked on it.

"You remember what you said to me last night?" he laughed in her ear, licking her earlobe.

"Wha?"

"You still want me to lick you, baby? Suck you off? Make you come?"

She howled and gushed into his hand and he threw her legs over his shoulders and trailed his tongue from thigh all the way up to her pussy and he breathed in and let his hot breath out on her clit before he flicked it with his tongue.

She started fucking his hand and he pushed her legs open wider licking circles around her clit and sucking it hard, pushing the little marble around in his mouth with his tongue, licking her in long strokes in the same rhythm he slid his fingers in and out of her.

"Eddie…Eddie…I want your cock…Put your cock in my mouth." Liv moaned.

She meant it.

He groaned.

"Jesus, baby, you're so goddamn dirty…"

You had to pay a lot of money to get a woman to be as raunchy as her.

He moved her around so she could suck his cock while he licked her and she really got hot and she was sucking him hard, harder than she had the night before because now she was really turned on, and it felt good, goddamn good and he thought he was going to come in her mouth and that wasn't what he wanted, no he had other plans for her.

As soon as she started to come, he turned her around again on the bed and mounted her, pushing her legs open with his knees.

He knew she liked to look at his cock, and he gave her a good look at it, she'd made him as thick and long and hard as he got with her hungry mouth.

She pulled him down into her arms and locked her big, round, strong thighs around him and he gave it to her hard, and fast and deep, letting himself go, feeling her squeeze his cock and push back against him.

"Oooo, you're so hard, Eddie…so big and so…fuckin…hard….I almost forgot…been so long…..oooo…"

He had one arm under her and held her close against his chest, and she had her legs up around his shoulders, gasping for more, crying out for harder and he gave it to her, yes he did.

He felt good, goddamn good and when she came, keening and wailing and howling, thrusting her hips up and down his cock.

Eddie felt like a man, again, and he went off with her and threw back his head and roared, and slammed his fist right through the wall.

Plaster dust fell onto the bed and onto Liv, and she laughed and brushed it off her chest.

"Holy shit, Eddie." She gasped.

The Comedian pulled out of both his partner and the wall, and brushed plaster dust out of his hair.

"Didja hurt yourself?"

"Naah. These fuckin' dividin' walls are paper thin."

"You know how may holes you filled in over the bed from you punching it?"

"As many holes as I filled in the ceiling from you shootin' it."

They brushed the plaster dust out of the bed and got under the blankets, Liv curling up with her head on his chest and Eddie put his arms around her.

That was more like it.

She still did taste like a goddamn teenager, and would have liked to stay in bed with her all day, to make up for all that lost time, and he really did love her so much it made him fucking crazy.

And tired.

"That's it for me, kid. I can't make a fist. I'm goin' back ta sleep. Fuckin' cold in here again. All the fuckin money I pay for this joint and I never get any fuckin' heat in the fuckin' bedroom. Jesus Christ."

"Ohhhh man, Eddie, you bet your ass that was it! It's been so long since you fucked me I forgot how good you are. You know that your drunk and lousy is like a lotta guys best? Accousre it'd be pretty hard to be a lousy lay with a cock like that. You ever measure it, Eddie?  
"That's fag shit, doll. Are you cold?"

"Freezin'. It's one of those unseansonably cold nights, though."

"Yeah. An I'll bet that cheap fuck has the heat turned off already. Gimme the phone. Hello, Milosevitch? This is Eddie Blake in 3001. Did that cocksucker sand nigger who owns this dump tell you to turn the heat off?...Yeah, I thought so. Sure I'm cold. It's thirty fuckin' degrees out there! Turn the motherfuckin' furnace back on. I'll tell him myself. Yeah. Okay Burt. Someday, I'm gonna buy this building and kill that motherfucker. Seeya round. Hey, kid? You still think I'm the greatest man in the whole wide world."

"Sure enough, Eddie."

"Well, then, youse could get dressed and go down to Grossman's for me, get me some fuckin' coffee and some bagels. It ain't gettin' any earlier and I gotta get on the road."

"You lousy motherfucker."

Eddie started to laugh.

"Come on kid. I'm an old man, I got bad knees, I'm hung over, and you keep mercilessly fucking my brains out…"

He was laughing pretty hard, now.

"Yeah, fuck you, it's only seven, I'm goin back to sleep. Old man, my ass."

They had been sleeping fitfully before, but now, the Comedian and the Harlequin slept soundly and well, for the first time in a little over a month.

Especially after the maintenance man put the furnace back on.

***

Paul didn't sleep more than an hour or two that night; and when he woke up he felt like somebody had beaten him with a shovel.

Repeatedly.

And his face looked like ten pounds of raw hamburger

He didn't feel like having his mother fuss over him so he just left and got on the first subway and went to Manhattan, before even she got out of bed.

First he went to see Rosie to let her know that he was out.

They went back to bed for awhile, and even though Paul hadn't so much as looked at a woman for a month, something happened to him that never happened to him before.

He couldn't get it up.

At all.

Rosie said it was okay, she understood, he was hurt, but Paul just about fled her apartment.

He shuffled around all morning, feeling lost and confused.

Dr. Long was wrong, it was worse now that he was out and back on the streets.

Places he had known all his life looked weird and alien to him, and when he looked up and saw the sign for Grossman's Deli, he walked in like a man in a dream.

A bad dream.

The clock on the wall said nine AM, and Liv was there, getting some bagels and coffee to go.

When she saw him, Benny had to take the bag from her, because she almost dropped it.

Liv was surprised that her friend was out of bed. He was all banged up like he had taken a big time serious beating, and not a casual Friday night fight kind of beating.

A big-time professional style New York City fuck you, chief, ass-kicking.

The kind you don't get upstate at some fancy ski resort.

"Paulie! Jesus Christ, Paulie, your face!" she cried.

"It's not so bad."

"My ass! How the fuck did you get that fucked up at a goddamn resort?"

She wanted to see what Paulie's story was.

He took a stab at it.

"Aww, shit, Napalm, I wasn't workin' upstate, I was doin' some time in the joint on…on a bad pot beef. And…they had a fuckin' riot in the prison and…this…this big ass Chinese black guy tried to fuck me in my ass, and I showed him nobody makes a punk out of Paul Blake."

Liv just looked at him.

For one thing, Paulie's lingo was straight out of a B Dennis Hopper biker flick. For another, if you got pinched for misdemeanour possession of the kind of penny-ante amount of pot Paulie would have, you paid a couple of C-notes, or you did thirty days county time.

They do not send you upstate on that kind of shit.

Then there was that whole Kung Fu Black Chinaman prison riot rape thing.

Max Grossman was behind the counter looking like he was about to piss himself trying not to laugh.

"Could you hold my order a minute, Max? I gotta talk to Paulie for a minute."

"Sure, sure."

Liv dragged Paulie over to the corner table.

"What the fuck kind of cover story is that? You don't admit to doing time, man! Tell everybody you got jumped and some dudes tried to rob you. You can say you won, and they should see the other guys, but don't say shit about the joint. And while you're up and around, I want you to take the food to Eddie. He's in a bad way over what went down with you last night."

"What?"

Liv grabbed Paulie by the front of his tee shirt.

"Cut the shit, man! I know the score, okay? Eddie told me he beat you up. An' what's more I know why. I know where you were, and I know why you were there. Who the fuck do you think asked my father to look after you, the goddamn Tooth Fairy?" Liv demanded.

"I'm sorry Liv, I…"

"Don't gimme that sorry shit, Paulie. Just tell me whether or not you're gonna do it again."

"Fuck no! Hey, if he told you he beat me up, then you must know…who he really is."

"Of course I fuckin' know! And now that you know, you had better shut the fuck up about that too, Paulie! Don't even think it."

"Sorry."

"Yeah. I'll bet you are. Eddie's sorry too. Sorry he beat the fuck outa youse. An' I'm not so sure I ain't gonna finish the job! What the fuck is the matter with you, man? And I'm not talking about the reason you took your trip upstate. I'm talking about what you did last night! You know if he knew it was you he wouldn't have knocked you around. Ya do know the kinda work he does, right? Jesus, Paulie, this ain't some fuckin' TV show or comic book. Ya know?" Liv demanded.

"I do now."

"Sure you do. If you did, Paulie, you'd know that takin' a beating don't make you a man. I tooka lot of beatings in the time ya known me, an all it made me was a mean fucking drunk. You know what makes you a man? Standin' up. Standin' up and sayin', it's me, Uncle Eddie. I'm the Green Jackal. I did it. What you did makes you a selfish fuckin' asshole who tricked a guy who's like a father to him into doin' somethin' he promised himself he'd never do since his father did it to him. You hurt the man, Paulie. Bad. You ever put my Eddie in that kinda pain, again, I'm gonna make you feel it, too." Liv snapped.

"I'm sorry. Maybe I should go talk to him. Explain myself. I never thought of it that way."

"You don't seem to be thinkin' about much, Paulie."

"I'm not. You don't understand, Liv. Ask your dad. When you get that, I dunno, that call, like a priest gets to be a priest, to be a mask, it's...its' like the same kinda thing, yunno? Well, I got the call. I got it and I fucked up. I blew it. Like Peter Fonda in Easy Rider. I don't care if you kill me or if Uncle Eddie does or if I get hit by a bus. If I can't be the Green Jackal. I can't be Paulie Blake and I don't want to figure out who else I should be. I was hopin' he did kill me. I'm sorry he didn't."

Liv really wanted to tell Paulie that she knew exactly what he meant, but she held her tongue.

"Don't talk like that, Paulie. I know a lotta masks. Your Uncle, he's one of the biggest masks in the game. Look, I'm havin' a late meeting with Tony Stark about a job. Midnight. He works with S.H.I.E.L.D, you know. Lemme test the waters for youse. Feel things out. Don't give up Paulie. I'm sure Eddie has plans for youse and I know I can find some mask who's lookin' for an eager but slightly wayward apprentice. Just come in around 12:30 and siddown here and keep your mouth shut until I'm done. Don't fuck up anymore, okay? No more extraneous villain shit."

"Is he really Iron Man?"

"Even if I knew, Paulie, you think I'd tell you? Look, Paulie, lemme tell you something. All masks, villain and hero, are people. Just like you and me. They go home, someplace and take off their costumes and they have wives and husbands and girlfriends and kids and dogs and sinus headaches and drinking problems and favourite albums and the whole nine yards, just like real people. And just because he puts his costume on, it don't mean he ain't your Uncle Eddie, anymore. You dig?"

"I know that. I'm not stupid. Look, I won't ever do anything like what I did again. Believe me."

"Oh, I believe you, Paulie. I believe you, because from now on in, I'm watchin' you, baby. If I ever even think that you are even entertaining thoughts of a return to supervillainy, I will make this beating Eddie gave ya look like a kiss. I mean it. You're my friend, Paulie, but if you go that way, we're not friends anymore. I'll hurt you, Paulie. I'll hurt you so you'll feel what I did to you every day for the rest of your life, and if I hurt you bad enough, that won't be for very long. You dig?"

"I dig, Napalm. I promise. I'm done."

"You better be. Cos you seen for yourself, your uncle, he's a bad motherfucker. But I'm just as bad as he is. How bad, shit, man, you don't wanna fuckin' know. Okay?"

"I'm done, Liv. I swear, I'm out. Well, except for something I gotta do for Uncle Eddie."

"Villain shit?"

"Not really. It hasta do with his partner. I can't say nothin' else."

"Fine. We'll talk later. I ain't mad at ya, Paulie. I'll seeya later. Do yourself a favour. Have Eddie drive you home, and go to bed. Ya don't seem like yourself. I don't like ta see youse like this."

" I can't help it, Liv. Maybe I will feel a little better if I go back to bed."

"I'm goin to go fuckin' work on one a my cars, at Hollis' garage. At least I can get some peace and fuckin quiet! Jesus, what a fuckin day!"

Paulie followed Liv out and quite literally ran into his Uncle Eddie.

"Sorry."

"Get the fuckin' bags, Paulie." Eddie ordered.

Paulie got the fucking bags.

"I'm goin' ta go work on the car, Eddie. I gotta get outa here for awahile."

"Okay kid. I'll seeya next week. I'll callya when I know what room they're givin' us."

Paulie watched the way Uncle Eddie kissed her goodbye.

Like he meant it.  
Like he was a man.

He thought about his failure with Rosie, earlier.

As they walked back to Uncle Eddie's building, Paulie just shuffled along with his hands in his pockets and his head hung low, the way he had at Arkham.

Eddie noticed it right away.

"What the fuck is the matter with you, Paulie? Why ya walkin like some little girl who's scared some nigger's gonna come and beat her up and steal her purse?"

"I went to see Rosie this morning, an' I fell down on the job. A month since I got to be with a woman, and I couldn't get it up. At all. Ever since they sent me up the river, I ain't been myself. Now I ain't even a man, anymore. Do me a favour, Uncle Eddie. Get me my costume back from the cops and lemme pretend to break into your place. Then you can shoot me, and at least I can die like a man."

"What happened to you, kid?"

Paulie stared at his uncle with a look of ultimate misery.

"Awww shit, Uncle Eddie, they took my mask away."

Eddie Blake knew exactly what he meant.

***

Paulie sat down, he opened up one of the big Styrofoam cups of black coffee, took a sip and started putting butter on his first bagel.

Eddie remembered telling him when he was 12 that cream and sugar was for women, and that cream cheese was for queers.

"So, you're one of us, now, huh, Paulie?"

"Jesus, Uncle Eddie, until I was in that goddamn jail without my mask I didn't realise how bad I needed it. First of all, I'm sorry I didn't tellya it was me right away. All I saw was the fuckin' costume, for a minute there, I forgot that was my uncle inside it. I guess I was tryin' to prove somethin' and all I proved was that if the biggest fights you was even in was small-time shit with rednecks and neighbourhood cats who don't like long –haired dudes, then you shouldn't duke it out with superheroes. I know ya wouldn't have busted me up if ya knew it was me, and I shoulda said somethin'. Hey, I'm sorry of you feel bad about it, Uncle Eddie, but believe me, I feel a helluva lot worse. I got a whole lotta reasons why bein a supervillain was a lousy idea. But it didn't seem like a bad idea at the time."

"That's what I was tryin' ta tell ya a coupla months ago. Most really fuckin' stupid ideas sound like a good idea at the time."

"I know it's gonna sound fuckin' stupid, but I did it because it made me feel like I was a man. A real goddamn man, not just the family fuckin' chooch. I mean you and Dad, and Ma, ya raised me and Pat to be men. Real men. But everything I was gettin', it was on the arm. I got money to go to college cos my Dad turned his back on the Soviets, not cos I did well in high school. I got my job onna garbage truck cos my Dad worked on it. And you were gonna get me another scholarship, well if it's true what they say that Nixon's such an asshole that you and Captain America an' Superman and Nick Fury are runnin' this country, I guess you coulda got me ten scholarships. It made me feel like a punk. A fuckin' punk."

"I'm still listenin, Paulie, but I don't see how wearin' Bridget's tights made you feel like a man, unless you got some other kinda fuckin' problems."

"That comes later. But those were Rosie's problems, not mine. Anyways, bein' a supervillain was something I did. Myself. I was thinkin' about bein' a hero, but to do what? You gotta have somethin' to become a trainee for the Avengers or the Justice League, a superpower, a special skill. If I was a fuckin' mutant like Bridget I coulda been an X-Man. How come she's a mutant and nobody else in the family is?"

"Your piecea shit grandfather was a mutant, too, we think. I dunno, Paulie. Ask Liv. She knows all about that shit."

"Well, anyway, all you need to be a supervillain is a costume and a name and a story. So I got some shit together and I started puttin' it on and just running around town. I felt like a different person when I put it on, like somebody. I wasn't Paulie Blake, the neighbourhood weirdo, anymore. I was the Green Jackal. Rich, ruthless, feared by men, adored by women. All the sudden I coulda done anything. Anything I wanted. It was my ticket out of being a sucker, a nine to five schmuck who does what he's supposed to do. A sellout. Cut my hair and get a shit job. Marry some chick I don't really like and have a buncha kids I can't pay for that I never see cos I always got my nose to the grindstone. I mean, shit, anything's better than wages. I was feelin' like a rat in a trap, and I was about ready to gnaw my tail off to get out. And I was really startin' to feel the walls closin' in one me. But, things got really bad when Rosie found my costume in the car. She went nuts. She begged me to put the costume on and do it to her. And when I did, it was, yunno, different. For me. I can't explain. I felt, like, powerful. And important. I musta fucked her like six times in one night; it was like nothin' I can explain. Like some kinda crazy fuckin' drug, I dunno."

"I'm startin' to getcha, now, Paulie."

It made Eddie think about back when he decided to stop being Eddie Blake, neighbourhood tough guy in rags and tatters working on building sites and became the Comedian, a masked avenger ridding the city of criminal filth the way he rid his family of his demented father.

Made him the man he was today, instead of another fat old broken-down drunken Irishman with an ex-wife and a beer gut in a hardhat, eating soggy sandwiches on a girder and talking to the other working stiffs about what he did in the war and how his kids used his hard-earned money to go to college and learn how to be Commies and hate everything he ever fought for.

Like Paulie said, just about anything was better than wages, and being another nine to five fucking schmuck.

"It seemed natural to me, bein' a mask. I spent my whole life readin' about masks, and hangin' around them, an, of course that was what I wanted to do, too. I woulda rather been a hero, but I didn't think I could cut it. I dunno. I wasn't sure. Anyway, then, Rosie starts askin' me to come to the porno shop and fuck her in the nudie booth. She promised me it would be on her break and nobody would see us, but she lied."

The Comedian laughed.

That Rosie broad, she was something else.

"I got mad. I mean, if she has this little kink, she wants to show everybody in the world her pussy, I mean, it's a free country, right? But I never wanted to be the star of a sex show. She makes me even madder telling me that she could get into a dirty movie but she didn't want to make one with just anybody, but now that I had the suit we could be in one, together. It was like she was stepping all over my dreams. Taking my secret identity and making it somethin' small and pathetic and mundane. I hadda do something. So I stole the knife outa her purse. I didn't even know what I was gonna do. If I saw some guy beatin' up a woman I woulda saved her and been a hero. But, the first thing I saw was the drugstore, so I went in an' robbed it, an I was a villain. Then you and the Harlequin showed up. Lucky me."

Eddie noticed he didn't say "you and Liv."

He didn't know Liv was the Harlequin, that was good.

The Comedian wanted to keep it that way.

"After that, it was all downhill. Ya see, I wanted to leave it up to fate. Let fate choose what side of the cape I was on. They talked me up a big game at Arkham, pumped some air back into my big dream, but when I saw you in your costume comin' out of your car, I realised that was full of shit. You decided what side of the cape you're on, not fate. She showed me her last card and it was the Ace of Spades. I know I was bein' a selfish prick, but I was kinda hopin you would kill me, cos I know it's gone. I screwed the pooch. I picked what was behind door number two and got a lifetime supply of Q-Tips. Gone, and I can't get it back. Now I'll just be a mook, forever. I wanna be a masked hero, it's what I've wanted since I was just a kid, but I was a dumb motherfucker and I took the easy way out, and I blew it. An' now that I ain't the Green Jackal, anymore. I feel like I'm nobody. Not even me."

"Jesus, Paulie, you watch way too much fuckin' TV and ya spend too much time at the goddamn movies! Real life ain't that cut and dried, kid. I kinda figured this day would come. I never figured you'd go up the river for bein' a supervillain first, though. But you want it bad enough, that's for sure. It ain't gone, and you ain't over. Jesus, ya act like youse killed somebody—"

"Well, I did make a deal with Magneto, once. We played chess for nine hours, straight, last summer an' I think I convinced him that if he does take over the world to spare the freaks and the weirdoes because we're also as much mutants as mutants are. An' he told me that when he takes over New York, I get to be the King of all the _homo sapien_ slaves."

Eddie gave him an incredulous look.

"You done, Paulie?"

"Well, ain't that kind of villain-y?"

"No. That's coverin' your ass in case of emergencies. It's also fuckin' stupid shit he was prob'ly tellin' ya to throw youse off your chess game. Paulie, I want youse to do me a favour. Every morning, when ya get up and brush your teeth, look in the fuckin' mirror an' say "This ain't the comic books and it ain't the movies, this is real life." Okay?"

"Really?"

"Really. It might help. Now, as for your future as a mask, we'll see how you do with this little job I got for youse, maybe I know a guy I can talk to about it. No offence, Paulie, but I'm not the guy to train you. Me and the Harlequin, we swim in the dirty end of the pool. I don't want you there. Your Ma and I sweat blood so you would never have to go there. Whaddya think of the Nite Owl?"

"The Nite Owl! Shit! He's…well, he was, before I knew the Comedian was you. Not that I didn't think the Comedian was cool, but..."

"Nite Owl's your favourite mask? I thought so. He don't get his hands too dirty. An' you don't want to, either. That's because you're a good kid, Paulie. You look like me, and you're crazy like me, that's for fuckin' sure, and you may just be as tough as me, but you ain't the kind of black-hearted sunnuvabitch I am. That's good. Means I did something right in my fuckin' life. Now, you got any kind of plan together, yet?"

Paul started to get that old a familiar glint in his eye, and reached inside his pants.

Right down the front.

"Hey, Paulie, if you ain't thought of dick, just tell me."

"No, I keep my notebook for my mask ideas in my shorts, along with my emergency ten bucks. You get mugged, nobody ever looks in ya shorts." Paulie explained.

He put the small notebook on the table.

"Why dontcha just read it to me?" the Comedian suggested.

"You can pick it up, I got a pocket for it sewed into alla my shorts."

The Comedian read his plan, laughed, and shook his head.

"This is some real cornball shit, Paulie. But, as sicko supervillain plots, go, it's a real oldie but goodie. Did this come from Buck Rogers?"

"Flash Gordon. I forget which issue. I put a few of my own little touches in it, but it's the same general idea. I figure as long as I'm an amateur, I'd better stick with something simple that works. Like Jack told me. What about the money he gave me? And this warehouse? Are you really gonna talk to the Nite Owl about me?"

"Go ahead and use the place, for your plan. The money, too. But just for your plan. Nothin' else. And yeah, you make this go smoothly, ya show me ya can do more than hold up a store, I'll talk to the Boy Scout. Ya already know him, but when ya find out who's under that cowl, ya won't believe it." "So I might get to be the Green Jackal?"

"Hey, Paulie, you are the Green Jackal. Just like I am the Comedian. When you die they'll bury you in your costume. Just like Lugosi. Relax."

A sea change came over Paulie.

He smiled and slung his feet up on the table and leaned back on the back two legs of the chair and put his hand behind his head.

"Now I'm in business." He crowed.

And he was Crazy Paulie, again.

"Get your dogs offa my table! Now, listen, hot shot. Don't count your chickens, and quit fuckin' crowin'! This ain't gonna be easy. Anything you do, you tell me what it is first. Before you buy beer for your fridge at your hideout, you call me and tell me what kind. Now, I gotta go. I gotta plane to catch. I missed last night so now I gotta fly in with Superman and Batman. Batman I got no problem with, but Superman, Jesus Christ. And one more thing."

"I know, Uncle Eddie. Keep my hands off your partner."

"Fuck your hands, Paulie. Keep your dick outa my partner. I know whatcha did. I know you wasn't tryna fuck her, but she thought you was, and you almost scared her into killing you. So just in case you got some love story idea in your mind that the Harlequin wants you, she don't. Not unless ya mean how she wants to kill you. She don't know you're my nephew. All she knows is you're the Green Jackal, some creep supervillain who tried to get wise with her. So you just forget about it. Besides, this ain't a family affair. You got it?  
"The Harlequin and Liv? You're balling both of them? Jesus, what the fuck do you eat for breakfast? Rocket fuel?"

"Family trait, right, kid? So ya had a bad morning. After the beating you took, don't be so tough on yourself. Now, you go home and go back to bed. Call this number and ask for this room if anything goes FUBAR, alright?"

The Comedian wrote a number in the Green Jackal's notebook and handed it to him.

Paulie squirreled the notebook away.

"Okay."

"Ya need a ride home?"

"Could ya drive me back to Rosie's place? I fucking walked all the way up here from the Village. I'll sleep there all day and surprise her when she gets back. I don't want her thinkin' I'm Mr. No-Dick all the sudden. But I can't hack the subway. The way I feel, if somebody shoved me on the subway, if I don't pass out from the pain, I'll rip their head off. I gotta get back to bed."

"I'm surprised you're walkin, Paulie. You're one tough son of a bitch, kid."

"Just like you taught me to be, Uncle Eddie."

"Fuckin' right I did. C'mon, let's go. Oh, I got a package for youse, in the car."

When Paulie opened the door, his costume was waiting for him in the front seat.

"Take somea that money Jack gave youse and get a new costume, kid. This one is really fuckin' cheap, amateur an ' corny. An' get a fuckin utlity belt so youse can keep your notebook in it. That fuckin' thing is disgusting. I'm gonna go boil my hands, now." Eddie suggested

***

Rosie was worrying about Paulie as she was walking home, and she wasn't paying attention to much, especially not the shadow moving above her as she walked between her building and the one next door, heading past the fire escape of her apartment.

Someone jumped down in front of her and she almost screamed until she saw the green flash of plastic cape.

"Hey, baby? Where are you going, all by yourself?"

Paulie spun her around and pushed her back against the stairs of the fire escape.

"Home. Let me go, you supervillain!"

Paulie picked her up and carried her up the fire escape so they were standing just outside her open window.

"I'm not a supervillain. I'm an undercover superhero, baby."

She lifted up the bottom part of his mask and kissed him gently, his face was so messed up.

That wasn't slowing him down anymore, though.

"Then you'll let me go, Mr. Green Jackal?"

"If you want me to."

"Are you kiddin' me, Paulie? I'm not wearing any panties. But you already know that. Don't it bother you that anybody could walk by? I thought it did."

She unsnapped the leotard and pulled the front of his tights down.

"Yeah, but this is what you like, Rosie…baby…"

"Damn, Paulie, lemme get my legs around you…"

They were interrupted by the window across the street sliding open and somebody throwing a bucket of water at them.

"Hey! Hey you crazy asshole? Whaddya doin out there? I got kids in heah! Go in the fuckin' house, ya sick hippie bastards!"

"Go fuck yourself, asshole! If I come over there an' hit you with my cock, it'll knock your ass out!" Paulie yelled back.

Rosie pulled away from him and climbed in the window.

"Come on, Paulie."

"No. Hey, you, fatso? How do ya like me now, ya cocksucker? Does your wife like superheroes? Send her out!"

Paulie pulled his mask down over his mouth and waved his cock at the offended party as he taunted him, giving him the finger with his free hand.

"Awww, fuck youse, ya crazy bastard!"

The man left his window and Paulie pulled his tights up and climbed back in the window.

Rosie was laughing.

"You are so fuckin' crazy, Paulie."

"What? That's why I don't like doin' it in semi-public. Hey!"

She took off his mask and he pulled down his tights and they both managed to haul him out of the leotard.

Rosie stopped laughing.

"Paulie, Jesus, you got bruises all over your body."

"I know."

"Aren't you in a lot of pain?"

"Yeah. In my balls. It's been a month, Rosie. Have mercy on me. Let's go to bed."

Rosie went into the bedroom, dropping her clothes along the way.

She even closed the drapes.

"Crazy, crazy, crazy. Come here, Crazy. Finish what you started."

Paulie was in a lot of pain, but Rosie was careful not to touch him or kiss where he was bruised, and making love to her made him feel good.

Her too.

Before he fell asleep, Rosie made sure he took all his pills he'd left there in the morning.

As she was falling asleep, the phone rang, and she reached over and answered it.

"Hello? Oh, hello Mr. Stavrogin. He's here…yeah he was actin' funny this morning, but he's okay now… I'm whispering because he's asleep…yeah, tell his Mama his pills are here and I made sure he took them before he fell asleep…I think he's gonna be asleep until tomorrow, so I'll send him home in the morning…okay. Bye."

Rosie slept for awhile, then she got up, ate dinner, did her homework, listened to some records, watched a little TV and then went back to bed.

Paulie was still asleep.

When she got in bed with him, he hugged her.

"Are you really gonna be a superhero, Paulie? My baby, the superhero. Maybe I'll get a costume, too."

She shut off the light.

"Rosie?"

"What is it, baby?"

"Tell me when it's midnight. I gotta meet Napalm at Grossmann's."

"You ain't goin out by yourself in the shape you're in. I'm coming with you."

"Okay. Is it midnight, yet?"

"Yeah. It's midnight. Good thing I don't have class tomorrow."

_(Author's Note: The Harlequin and Iron Man have an origin story, too. Look for "Blue Light Special" in Comics-Iron-Man- Tony Stark/Pepper Potts to find out just what's sticking in Eddie's craw. And for those of you who enjoy a little violence, check out Full Adamantium Jacket under Comics-Avengers for a War is Hell story featuring the Comedian, Lucky Jim Howlett, and the Invaders. And don't miss the next exciting chapter, in which Liv is going to have to figure this mess out all by herself...or is she? And if Liv does pass this test, will she have the stomach for the kind of dirty work her partner does? Tune in to future chapters of "The Joke's On Me" to find out.)_

_COMING ATTRACTIONS: When the Comedian's gone out the window, will the Harlequin rest until she's avenged him? How far will she go to make all things right with her world? Find out in "The Joke's On You" and see who stays alive in '85 in the Harlequin's AU._


	6. Get Up, Stand Up

_(Author's Note: This chapter is really long, I know, but if you have to, gentle readers, read it in two sittings. Suffice it to say that this is where things get interesting, and in the next chapter, well, that's where things get nuts)_

**Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, but doesn't everybody know a guy who reminds them of Eddie Blake? Hmmm. Maybe I've just been associating with the wrong class of persons. ;)**

**VI: Get Up, Stand Up**

**First Day of 34****th**** Annual Superhero Summit in Washington DC- Monday**

**New York City, 1974**

**I: Liv: **

So, after all the dust cleared and everything was finally out in the open, Eddie was off to the Summit, and it was up to me now, to find out Paulie was really on our side of the cape, get the low-down on his plan, and make a plan of my own to trump his.

In other words, Eddie and maybe the Old Man and Bruce had already set Paulie up to make a patsy out of me, and if I didn't want to end up looking like some kind of two-bit schmuck, I had to make a patsy out of him.

Yeah, that was a real good deal.

If you wanna know the truth I was still mad at Eddie, not about that dumb fight the night before when he was drunk off his ass, but the more I thought about this trip he'd laid on me, the less I liked it.

After I said goodbye to him at Grossmann's, I went home for awhile, I had to drop the dog off, anyway.

I needed some time to think.

Bruce was already gone, so it was just me and Alfred and my dog, Baldur, and I was tired, I went right to bed, again. I figured I'd leave Baldur with Alfred, in case I had to do some woke me up a little later, he'd made lunch for me, and after I ate, I went and sat outside on the balcony outside my bedroom with my dog and talked it over with him.

Yeah, like you don't talk to your dog. Fuck you.

I was just talking to the dog for awhile, but then I got a big surprise when Dick came out to sit with me.

You could have knocked my ass over with a feather.

"Dick, what the fuck are you doing here?" I asked him.

"I'm boycotting the Summit this year, because I think Bruce's plan is really shitty. You may be a lot of things, Liv, but you're a damn good mask, and you don't need some kind of half-assed final exam to prove it. Besides, there may not be blood between us, but you're still my little sister, and as your big brother it's my job to stick with you, no matter what."

"Dick, I saved your life a coupla times, didn't I?"

"Sure. And you've saved mine."

My big brother, he can be a stuffed shirt and a real square john, but he's a good Joe, he really is.

Which made me feel better, at least I wasn't living under the same roof with two traitors.

"Then there sure as fuck is blood between us, big brother. If there's any part of this that ain't too dirty for you, I'll let you in on it."

"C'mon, Liv. I work with Bruce. His hands are only slightly less bloody than yours. Whatever it is, I can take it."

"Even if I have to snuff Paulie Blake?"

That knocked Dick for a loop.

"How the hell did Paulie Blake get into this?"

Now I know I can trust Dick, so I told him the whole story.

"Holy shit, what a mess!"

I could tell Dick was really upset, because, for him, he was cussing a blue streak.

"Liv, Paulie's just crazy. He's no supervillain. All that crap about fate dealing him his hand; the guy reads too many comic books and he thinks that's the way it is."

"But what if he is a bona fide supervillain?"

"Then we send him back to Arkham and let the doctors straighten him out. You can't just kill him."

"You're probably right about that, Dick."

"I'm right about Paulie. He's just doing what his Uncle tells him to do. So, do you have a plan?"

"Not really. Normally, I'd go to the Batcave and access Bruce's files and his mainframe, but that would give me away, because if you so much as move a piece of dust off of a file cabinet, Bruce knows about it. Makes me realise that I really need to get my shit together, and make the Funhouse more than just the room where I keep my guns and fix my cars."

"What about the computer in Dr. Manhattan's lab? Doesn't he have access to pretty much everything, including S.H.I.E.L.D files?"

"Yeah. He does. And I have the clearances to access it, but I can't do it right now. Eddie's gonna to talk to Nick Fury, and see if he can make Paulie's adventures as a supervillain officially go away. You know. Like that whole thing up in TO when me and Logan went after Slim. Now, if I'm using a federal computer to access Paulie's records at the same time Eddie is trying to get his mess cleaned up, that looks suspicious. The last thing I want to do is fuck Paulie over any more than he's already fucked himself."

"Well, why don't you go work on the car? And when you figure out what you're going to do, you know where I'll be." Dick suggested.

That was a good idea.

Doing some mechanic work always calms me down and helps me think.

I took the Wildcat over to Hollis' shop so that him and Joe could help me out. Now that I had to get all this shit done, I was going to have to finish up the car in a rush.

So there I was under the hood, working on something completely unrelated and thinking about how I was working my ass off, and pretty much every other mask in America was out there having a good time on Uncle Sam's nickel.

That's when it occurred to me that I was a fucking idiot.

If I wanted the goods on Paulie's plan, I didn't need a supercomputer.

I needed to use my big, jumped-up brain and all of those Sherlock Holmes-grade detective skills that Bruce has been drumming into my head since I was eleven.

Elementary, my dear readers.

Why not ask Paulie about his plans?

After all, who was one of his best buddyroos in the whole world?

Liv Napier.

And who was personally related to the President of the Society of Supervillains and could help him make his plot look real kosher?

Liv Napier.

And furthermore, who was his link between his Uncle Eddie and the Big Bad Harlequin, whose true identity remained unknown to him?

That's right, Liv Napier.

"Joe, what the fuck am I doing this monkey-ass shit for that you could finish up for me when I got bigger fish to fry?" I asked Joe.

He shrugged.

"That's what I've been thinking." He said.

"I gotta go get some shit together. Then I gotta to DC. You got my back?"

"Always."

Good old Joe Mac.

"I'll be back for the car on Friday. Tell Hollis I said thanks, in advance. And, as for you, Joe, after all this shit blows over, I'll hafta show ya how thankful I am to youse."

"It'll be ready, Liv." He promised.

I can always depend on Joe.

Now, as for getting around my lack of background information on who or what villains might be climbing into the pot with Paulie, with or without his personal knowledge and my inability to use Bruce's resources, I happen to know another millionaire superhero genius who really is the kind of lust-crazed, debonair, good-time playboy that Bruce pretends to be.

Fuck yeah, I'm talking about Tony Stark.

So, Tony has been trying to get me to at the very least quit my government job and come work for Stark Industries, and he's also hot to have me in the Avengers. He wants to get his mind into my mind and vice versa in the worst way, and yeah, extracurricular activity is on the agenda.

Someday I'll have to tell you about the time I ended up in the drunk tank of the lockup down in TJ one hazy weekend back in '71, and how I ran into Tony there and we busted out.

My point is that if anything even remotely resembling a supervillain sneezes anywhere in the known world, they get a box of Kleenex by messenger about ten minutes later with the complements of Stark Industries. And in New York, right in Tony's backyard, they're still sniffing when Iron Man shows up in person to hand them a tissue.

I went home and I called him, and I got his answering service, and I was on hold for a thousand years and then they patched me through to him on his goddamn plane to DC.

Actually, they patched me through to Pepper, and she handed the phone over to Tony after I commented that he was a little late and she said better late than never and we had a laugh.

"Good evening, Napalm. Let me guess. This is about that little family problem your partner is having."

"What little family problem?"

"The one that I got a call about earlier this morning from Nick Fury. He had fixed it, and I was supposed to make it look like nothing had been fixed. So, technically, I agree with you, completely. What family problem?"

"You're a devious son of a bitch, Tony. Who's flying? You or Rhodey?"

"Rhodey. I never talk and fly at the same time."

"Well, tell him to turn around. You can fly into DC a little later. I need you to come back to New York and meet me at Grossman's at midnight, so you and I can discuss the possibility of me doing some work for Stark Industries."

"What?! Napalm, don't tell me things like that unless you mean them! Just thinking about having your brilliant mind working for my brilliant mind gets me hard. Now, how the hell am I going to get the suit on?"

"Carefully? Look, I'm serious about this, Tony. I got troubles."

"I'm serious, too. I could hammer a one and a half inch nail through a two-by-four at this point. Rhodey, turn around. It's an emergency."

I could hear Rhodey saying that wasn't what he called an emergency.

"It is when you have to put on iron underwear. Napalm is capitulating. Well, at least I think she is. What's the catch, Napalm?"

"I'm not talking about anything permanent. Let's just say I'm thinking very seriously about taking you up on that offer to fund me for that genetic research project. But, you gotta do me a favour, first."

"I see. Now who's a devious son of a bitch?"

"C'mon, Tony, you know what a shark I am. So, you gonna show up?"

"Certainly I am. And I'm buying. In all seriousness, though, Napalm, this could get heavy. You know what I mean."

"Unfortunately I do." I said.

"_**Twilight of the Gods? Superman, the Comedian, and Captain America, and the Superhero Summit**_**" Rolling Stone, April, 1974**

Every year in Our Nation's Capital, or at least every year since this writer was a little boy, the sitting president calls a summit of all Our Nation's Superheroes.

It's part Red, White and Blue patriotic fashion show, and part diplomatic conference, and part flexing of American muscle in the face of the world, but it's all theatre.

Some people say it's a contest between who's on top, Superman and the Justice League or Captain America and the Avengers, and some will say its about whether Superman or Captain America are the real face of the USA, and some people say it's so that the X-Men can put a good face on mutantkind, and others just want to skip over all of that and get to the part where the Comedian and Wolverine, old army buddies from their days slaughtering Nazis with the Invaders, get drunk together and make something interesting happen that makes the tabloids.

I remember being a kid and watching the superheroes get off the planes at the airport on TV, and cheering for my favourites.

Superman, Batman, and the first Night Owl, from the Minutemen.

They were called the Minutemen, then, not the Watchmen.

My older sister, on the other hand, didn't seem impressed with those guys, she was always waiting for one man and one man only to appear.

The Comedian.

I wasn't old enough to understand how my sister could think a mere mortal was cooler than Superman, but times, and I have both changed.

Superman hasn't.

This year I was there at the airport when one of the planes from New York touched down and I saw everything they put on the TV and everything they don't.

I saw my boyhood hero, the All-American Man of Steel, ageless, forthright, friendly and stalwart, wading into the crowd to shake hands and sign autographs and talk to awestruck little boys.

I found myself enthusiastically shaking his hand, telling him I was from _Rolling Stone_ and that I couldn't believe I was really meeting Superman.

"I read your magazine. I know your generation doesn't think so, but the Justice League cares about you, and your concerns, and what you want for America. As an organisation, we have always supported civil rights for blacks, and women's rights, and I personally support those causes. We're also concerned about your problems. Drug abuse and addiction isn't new, but it seems to be attacking you kids in a bigger way than it got to people my age us. It's not as if these this don't affect us, just because we're superheroes. I almost lost the Harlequin to alcoholism, after all. Do you think we could arrange an interview?" he asked me.

The man was genuinely concerned, and I was genuinely touched.

I babbled my hotel phone number and my room number and wrung his hand again, and he moved on.

Around then, the Comedian stepped off of the airplane.

He seems oddly ageless, too.

There's a scar on his face that wasn't there on our old black and white TV, and he's got some grey in his thick black hair, but the man looks as strong and formidable as ever, smirking with a cigar in his teeth in his stars and stripes, black leather and big guns, his brawny arms still crossed resolutely across his chest.

And, even though he's been branded everything from a rapist to an assassin to a reactionary, girls my sister's age when we sat around the teevee together, jaded, liberated, post-Vietnam teenyboppers who mob Robert Plant and Roger Daltrey and Mick Jagger still love him.

Their older sisters wet their poodle skirts over him, and he made their mothers bobby socks stand on end, and I watch as the crowd of thirty or so screaming, clamouring teenyboppers cream their hip-huggers for the Comedian as they press against the fence.

There are more of them than anybody else.

The police struggle vainly to keep them back.

The Comedian laughs from around his stogie.

Clearly, he doesn't want the cops to ruin his fun.

"That's okay, officers. Let 'em out of the pen. There's plenty of me to go around. I mean, what the fuck are they gonna do to me?" He yells.

The police release the girls in a clamouring stampede that envelops the Comedian in jostling, shoving, swearing, squealing, sweating young girls.

"Hello girls! Come and get me!" he encourages them

Thirty pairs of hands are grasping, pawing, touching, and he handles it like an old pro, signing posters and smacking asses and giving out none too chaste kisses, laughing and encouraging the girls, egging them on.

They've got their hot little hands all over him, and the Comedian has his big paws all over as many of them as he can, too.

Looks like everybody is having a dirty good time.

They're all rubbing up against him like slinky cats in summer heat and they all desperately want to fuck him.

You get the distinct feeling that he wouldn't mind fucking each and every one of them, either.

Most of them have felt up or gotten felt up and are departing with their precious autographs and cherished memories, but one girl, a red-haired girl of medium height, hands the Comedian a Magic Marker and unties the tie on her blouse.

It falls open and there is nothing underneath it.

The Comedian laughs loudly and lustily.

She does have some nice tits.

They're not that big, but they're still nice.

Perfectly formed.

"Very nice, honey. Which one do you want me to sign?" he chuckles.

I can scarcely believe it, and neither can the Comedian's fellow heroes, or the press, or the crowd.

I watch him cup the girl's right breast in his left hand, casually rubbing her nipple with his thumb as he used his right hand to autograph her flesh.

The girl moans, audibly; she is incredibly excited.

If I were the Comedian, I'd be pretty excited, myself.

He gives her back her pen, ties her top shut for her and says something to her, quietly, laughing as he puts his arm around her shoulders and points towards one of the waiting limousines with the hand that holds his smouldering cigar.

The girl nods, avidly and turns to go.

The Comedian gives her a smack on the ass as she walks to the limousine, then he returns to satisfying the remainder of his fans as a driver gets out to let her into the back.

One girl, a short, plump blonde with long curly hair and tits as big as her head, not so perfectly formed but unbelievably huge, stand on tiptoes and reaches as if to kiss him.

Abruptly, he draws her close to his black leather armoured chest.

She squeals, and he bends her way back and really lays one on her.

Like in the forties movies.

They both look happy as they pull apart.

He writes something down on the notebook she has and tells her something, and as she goes , he smacks her on the ass, too, a little harder than he smacked the last one, but it's only understandable, she has more ass to slap.

Probably setting up a little something for tomorrow, or the next day.

I look at the faces of the other heroes as they too view the spectacle as they interact with the crowds.

Batman gives the Comedian an odd look, and the Comedian shrugs.

He looks as though he has had to stop the Boy Wonder from confronting the Comedian.

Superman turns to Captain America; he's pointing at the Comedian.

Captain America is trying to get Superman to calm down, but nothing and no one, however, can stop an angry and outraged Superman from confronting the Comedian.

He stalks by me with his cape waving mythically in the breeze.

I can't hear what's he's saying to the Comedian, but he's clearly upset, pointing at the limo, and then the crowd, and pounding his fist into his hand.

The Comedian seems unmoved, he just stands there and absorbs the verbal assault with his usual smirk on his face, stogie in place.

When Superman is finished speaking, he takes the cigar out of his mouth, spreads his arms wide, and I hear him ask, "Well, Supes, whaddya want me to do?" in his thick Brooklyn accent.

Then he puts the cigar back in his mouth with one hand and tugs meaningfully at his belt buckle with the other, chuckling.

For a minute, I thought Superman was going to sock him.

Captain America comes over, too.

The Comedian and Wolverine served under Captain America in the Invaders during World War II, and it's been his unofficial job since 1941 to dissuade either of them from doing anything too crazy, wild and unforgivable.

At least in public.

Cap puts one arm around Superman and one around the Comedian; he's making the peace here.

The Comedian is ready to shake and forget about it; Superman takes his hand a bit grudgingly.

Captain America leads his old comrade at arms towards the waiting limos, which will take them and the other heroes in secret to whatever hotel in the area the Summit will be held at this year, where they, in the guise of their secret identies will stay under what won't be a completely false pretence.

But Superman stands there, implacable, outraged, his cape still flapping behind him in the wind.

All of the press has gone; and the crowd is dispersing.

But I am still there, watching.

He strides over to me, an all-too human look of anger and embarrassment and outrage on his famous face.

"I'm sorry." He says.

I am the only one left to apologise to.

I have no idea what I should say.

"Oh, that's okay. I mean, he's just a man, right, and, ah, boys will be boys." I awkwardly reply.

"No. Not really. It's not that I'm a prude. I am a married man, after all. But when we have this mask on, we're not just men. We're supposed to stand for something. Especially the Comedian. A lot of people think of him as a symbol for America. I wish that someday, that man would learn how to behave like one."

Batman comes over and puts his hand on Superman's shoulder.

"I think he is behaving like one, Kal-El. You're much better behaved than the average American man." he says.

I guess one pillar of the Justice League doesn't leave the other standing around with his cape blowing in the wind.

Superman introduces me and the magazine; he talks about our interview.

He bids me goodbye.

They get into the last limo and drive off, and it's time for me to go, too.

Batman's comment gets me to thinking, which one of these three iconic men in Red, White and Blue is truly the symbol of America?

They all are.

Superman is the personification of honest, decent, just plain folks America, the nation who treads on high moral ground with open arms to all of those who are honest and decent and hard-working, and God-fearing, who exports freedom and democracy to the world.

Captain America is everything we want our soldiers and our policemen to be. He's a fighter on the side of what's right and what's just; if there's blood on his hands, it's the blood of our evil enemies, the blood of the enemies of the free world, Nazis and Commies and other supervillains from the Good War, and the shinier part of the Cold War, where we're fighting for the survival of the Free World.

And the Comedian is their shadow.

He's the black ops spook, the Green Beret, the Delta Force Marine who goes in with black paint on his face and a dagger in his teeth to get his hands dirty. He's the personification of America the Boozyful, the world's big, brawny, brawling bad boy. On one hand we're a loveable rogue, the big dumb guy you want on your side in a fight, on the other, perhaps, a violent thug, a hair-trigger gunfighter capable of anything.

The Comedian is Vietnam and Watergate and MK-ULTRA and the CIA, but also James Bond and the Man With No Name and cars with machine gum mounts and lear jets and fast women who are deadly, but only after they fuck you senseless.

"You can't have Captain America and Superman without the Comedian. It's not that kind of world."

I hear that a lot.

It's probably true.

Does he mean well?

Do we mean well, as a nation?

Does it matter?

Is it fair for us to love the men in Red, White and Blue who embody everything we want to think of ourselves as a nation, and hate the man who's feet are in the mire, holding the pedestal they sit on upon his very broad and yet, unlike Cap and Supes, very human shoulders?

After all, the Comedian is the only one out of the three of them who is just a man.

Just a man.

A man like you and me.

Now, there it is, maybe that's what we don't want to face.

If I had a bunch of girls lusting after me, I'd want to let them do it.

If a girl wanted me to sign her tits, and another girl wanted me to kiss her, I sure as hell would feel up the first girl and kiss the second girl, and if I had a hotel suite I'd take them both back to it, and, as the Comedian is rumoured to do, get drunk, put on some Chuck Berry, smoke a little of what they used to call reefers when he was a young man, and fuck the shit out of both of them.

After all, I'm an American, and I'm just a man.

And so is he.

That is the scary part.

**II: Liv**

Tony was about ten minutes late and so was Paulie, with Rosie, so everything worked out.

He was acting more like himself, again, I figured Eddie must have told him about his shot at the big leagues.

Paulie did what I told him to, he sat in the corner while it appeared that Liv Napier and Tony Stark were having an important business meeting about Stark Industries offering her funding to do some research on the hypothesis she put forth in her graduate thesis regarding the non-existence of homo superiour, and the theory that mutants were ordinary homo sapiens whose mutations were an ordinary, natural, and necessary part of the ongoing process of natural selection and Darwinian evolution.

Iron Man stacked some papers in a businesslike fashion.

"And then he lined the other one up for tomorrow. No flies on Eddie. So, now that you know what he's doing, what are you doing tonight, and why isn't it me?"

I pretended to look at the papers, but meanwhile, my pussy' s jumping around in my pants like a fish out of water.

And it's not just the part about him being a good-looking son-of-a bitch. He's an even better-looking son-of-a-bitch than you might think he is. Tony's pictures don't do him justice. He's kind of a cross between Errol Flynn and Sean Connery.

Which means that if you're a woman and you're not dead or a lesbian, about two minutes after you meet Tony Stark, you're imagining what it would be like to be underneath him with your legs wrapped around his waist.

You know what they say about catching lightening in a bottle? That's Tony. The reason why energy cannot be created or destroyed because Tony's using all of it. His picture is in the dictionary next to the word dynamo. And he's not a geeky, drunken asshole. Sure, he drinks, but he's not some kind of gutterball alkie. And he's incandescently fucking brilliant, but he's no poindexter. Nor is Tony an asshole. At least not the kind of asshole they make him out to be in the scandal sheets. They never get that perfect blend of superior sarcasm and smooth charm that makes Tony the kind of asshole you'd want to call your friend.

He's got style in spades, and a rapier wit, and you want to talk about class?

I'm just some shanty Mick from Brooklyn, guys like Tony usually don't pay a lot of attention to chicks like me, even if I didn't have ten tattoos and about as many scars as your average Ranger. I'd be crazy to tell him to peddle it elsewhere, and I'm not that crazy.

In one of his more modest moments, Tony informed me that he was the God of Fuck, and I can't say I have a lot of arguments with that, although, honestly, my money's on Eddie.

But I'm telling you, Tony Stark and bad sex shouldn't even be in the same sentence.

You gotta be kidding me!

I mean, you need knee pads and elbow pads to get it on with Tony. You could never do it in a single bed. I had to fix the suspension in my car after I took him on in it. You ever see any of those old Errol Flynn swashbucklers? The way he swordfights? Effortlessly, with a grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye, knowing he's got you right where he wants you? That's what it's like to make it with Tony. You're this way, you're that way, you never knew your leg could do that, and yeah, sure, maybe he popped his cork, but that doesn't mean his dominos are going down any time soon. By the time Tony's out of bullets, you're out of breath, you can't remember your name, but your spine's back in place.

So here I am, trying to do business and Tony's talking to me about fucking.

And I'm always horny.

And I got it like, twice in the last month.

And the SOB knew it.

"You'll do anything to get me to come work for you, permanently, won't you? This is serious shit, Tony. I'm talking about my friend's life, here."

"Don't be so dramatic. It doesn't suit you. And what's a little fucking between friends? Well, between us, far too little fucking. Jesus, there's Paulie. His face looks like it's been through a machine. Although, even beat up you can see he looks just like Eddie. No wonder you decided to stop beating him and try to rape the poor boy. I'll bet you'd been waiting to have at him for years and you just couldn't resist a chance to screw him when he didn't know it was you."

"I did not!"

"Oh yes you did! Don't lie to me, Napalm. You can swear up and down to Eddie that you had no designs on Paulie and he'll believe it. Mostly, because he needs to, and I have no doubt you felt guilty about it about thirty seconds after you tried it on with Paulie, but I will never believe the thought didn't cross your mind. And besides, everybody knows you don't like to take no for an answer from a man. No double standards, Napalm. If I was fighting some sweet young thing and no one was around and I decided to slide her panties off while she was bleeding and terrified, that would be rape, and they would quite rightly send my ass to jail."

I didn't even want to think about Tony being right.

"All I did was make him an offer. I never touched the guy."

"Semantics, Napalm. Well, Paulie's never seemed like the supervillain type. That Magneto thing, I think it's just a fluke. But he could be cleverly hiding his true diabolical nature under the guise of an eccentric young budding comics and fantasy writer. It would be a good cover. Especically considering his family problems."

"Exactly. And you and I both know that considering how close he is to my partner, if he was going to go up against us, it could be damaging. Not just to me and Eddie. To all of us."

Iron Man was suddenly very serious.

"You'd have to…"

"Take him out?"

"Don't say it! I'll get on this right away. What exactly am I getting on?"

"I can get the goods on his plan. I need to know if he's in with any other villains, purposely or accidentally. Paulie's good at keeping his lips zipped, unless it's about some scheme he's got going down. Then he's bragging all over town, flappin' his fuckin' jaws to no end. If he does that, even if he is just letting Eddie make a patsy out of him, he could still be in big trouble, and I could go walking into a trap."

"When do you need it?"

"Wednesday."

"Plenty of time. I'll meet you at my place, here, in New York of Wednesday night. Just drop over any time and Jarvis will call me and tell me when you've got there."

Tony looked over at Paulie and Rosie's table and Paulie nodded at him, and then winced in pain.

"What the fuck did you have the poor guy drag his ass out of bed at this hour for?"

"I promised him I'd talk to you about helping him become a mask. Seeing as you know Iron Man, and own the Avengers Mansion. He wanted to be here to talk to you in person."

"You know who I see him working with? Dan. They'd go together like Batman and Robin."

"I hope you're right. Look, do you have to be in DC right away, Tony?"

"No. Why?"

"Because I don't want to be sober or alone, tonight. When I pass out, take me home and put me to bed, okay?"

"Napalm, I can't do that. You and I got reasonably sober, together and I'm not going to help you fall off the wagon when times get rough. Why don't you come home with me, tonight?"

"But Paulie…"

"You look almost as bad as he does. I'll go talk to Paulie. You go get us a cab."

I just wanted this day to be over, too.

I got a cab and then I did something weird.

Really weird.

I told the cabbie to wait for Mr. Stark and tell him I was okay, I just decided to go back to Eddie's place, but I was lying, because I didn't go back to Eddie's place.

I just wandered away.

***

"Where's the lady who hailed you?"

"Huh? Hey you really are Tony Stark, ain'tcha?"

"Yes. I am. Where is she?"

"She said she was goin' back around the corner to some guy's place, you go ahead. So, you people need a ride, or what?"

Tony got in the back of the cab, and Rosie sat beside him, and Paulie got in on the other side.

"Is it worth checking to see if she did got to Eddie's?" Tony asked Paulie.

"Naah. She ain't there. Don't worry about it. When Napalm's gotta think, she's gotta be mobile and alone. Prob'ly just went to Eddie's long enough to get her bike and took a long ride. She'll turn up." Paulie assured him.

***

I didn't even go back to Eddie's and get my bike.

I just walked the whole way across the Brooklyn Bridge and back again.

I'm sure you know what a Devil's deal is.

It's when you're damned if you do, and damned if you don't.

If the "good guys" were setting me up, then that meant that my fellow masks were setting Paulie up too, setting both of us up for some kind of confrontation. To what end I didn't know, and for what reason I couldn't figure out, either.

And there I was, walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, praying that Tony was right and that Eddie and Bruce had decided to double cross Paulie and me.

Because the alternative was that Paulie Blake, my friend, my crazy goofy friend I've known since I was thirteen or so, who had "Live Freaky, Die Freaky" tattooed on his chest had gone over the wall and become a genuine supervillain, maybe even the newest member of the Society of Supervillains.

Then I thought about how Eddie would feel if that was the case.

Now you probably think a guy who could attempt to rape a woman he professes to love and shoot down a pregnant woman armed only with a broken bottle is capable of damn near anything and you would probably be right.

But one thing I knew Eddie couldn't handle would be killing his own nephew. If he had to do it, he would, but that would shatter him like a glass goblet. Eddie puts a lot of stock in the basic truth that he may be a mean motherfucker, but he's not the same kind of low-life criminal psycho motherfucker his father was.

It would still be true if Paulie did go bad and Eddie had to take him out, but Eddie wouldn't think so, anymore.

That meant only one thing.

If I found out that Paulie had switched sides, I was going to have to take him out, before he could do anything to hurt me, or my partner, or any of our colleagues.

I decided, as I approached what looked like an abandoned building down by the docks that if I had to do it I would make it look like it was an accident, for Eddie's sake and his family's sake , and they would never have to know Paulie went bad, or that it was me and not fate who sent my friend Paul Blake off into the Great Beyond.

I felt responsible, after all. If I could have faced up to it sooner that Paulie was the Jackal instead of getting drunk and getting into a brawl and almost getting my stupid ass killed, maybe I could have helped him.

Kept him out of Arkham, where they turned him.

Where maybe my own father turned him.

The sheer volume of double and triple-crosses this whole thing involves was beginning to make me feel sick in the soul.

But, if I had to take Paulie out, I was prepared to do that, because I know that when you're a mask, you have to do what you have to do without complaining, and take the consequences of your actions without shirking.

You gotta stand up.

But just because you gotta stand up, it doesn't mean you're made of stone.

I was tired, and my feet hurt and my legs hurt.

So tired I couldn't walk anymore.

I know the docks pretty well; me and Eddie go on patrol there, a lot, and I was pretty close to this pay phone down by this one joint where the wiseguys unload their swag from hijacked trucks, and make all their phone calls back to their bosses, and all.

Now, its okay with them if I make a call there, after all, my father's Crazy Jack Napier.

But I had this funny feeling about calling Alfred and asking him to come and get me.

He would have; Alfred's used to that kind of thing, and Dick probably would have come too, but that wasn't what the funny feeling was about.

It was the same reason I didn't just go back to Eddie's place and go to bed.

After what they'd done to me, neither place felt like home anymore.

I was still tired, though, bone-tired. All I wanted to do was rest, so I just sat down on the sidewalk, with my back against the wall of the building, just for a minute.

I was so goddamn tired, I didn't even realise that I had arrived at the first home I ever had.

**Tuesday**

**II: Jack**

Waking up in his own bed, in his own home, Jack Napier observed that it was certainly a lovely morning, even for a Tuesday.

Yes, God was in His Heaven, and all was Right with the World.

It had been only a few days since the Joker was paroled from Arkham Asylum, and he was still in the transition process; he'd only just presided in-person for the first time in more than a year at a meeting of the Society of Supervillains.

However, after nearly two years at Arkham with few conjugal visits, there were other social activities on his mind, and he had been considering a night on the town, but he just couldn't bring himself to disappoint Harley.

The Joker was a lot of things, but a freaky-deaky perv wasn't one of them. He played it pretty straight, which would have been a great disappointment to the innumerable legions of panting masochists and bondage babes that ate up the kinky superhero porno comics he drew, wrote, and mass-distributed himself, just for fun.

And profit.

Dr. Harleen Quinzell, a woman for whom psychiatry and Arkham Asylum were both too limiting , was a big fan, not so much of the sex comics, but more of his press cuttings, had been just one of his passing fancies. Someone with whom to while his time at Arkham away in mischief. Since the death of Liv's mother he hadn't bothered to have any women around for longer than a day or two, before sending them packing with cash, which kept them far quieter than a bullet.

In New York, with the Bat around, dead men told lots of tales.

But there was something about Harley Quinn, who had been all her life just waiting to burst out of the boring Dr. Quinzell that he found charming. Whether it was her latent psychosis that he had nurtured into full bloom, her cheerful devotion, her undying love, or perhaps her clever usage of a pipe wrench and a cheese grater to loosen a man's lips, he had gotten rather used to having her around.

He had been in Arkham, this time for eighteen long months, with only the odd conjugal visit with Harley he could arrange, and although he could have simply looked for one of those Joker comics hanging out of the purse or knapsack of some lovely young miss and showed her a less kinky than expected but nonetheless straight but not narrow good time, when he came home and found that Harley had cleaned the whole place and made an elaborate dinner with a special Bat-Symbol with an axe through it shaped cake and had even bought some new lingerie for the occasion, he didn't have the heart to let her down.

Indeed, he didn't let her down until the sun began to come up, when he despatched her to go up to the surface and buy him a newspaper.

That was around the time the day began to go downhill.

"Mistah J! Oh, Mistah, J, it's Miss Livvie! She's just lyin' in the street! I woke her up and she said she was too tired to move, but she's lyin' in the goddamn street!"

The Joker brought the Harlequin into the bunker where she had spent her childhood, and sat her on the parlour sofa.

She didn't wake up again when he picked her yup, and when he put her down on the couch, she just rolled over.

Harley wrung her hands and fretted.

"She don't smell like booze. And she's breathing okay."

"I think she's just exhausted. I'll put her to bed, and when she wakes up, I'll find out what's going on. Be a good girl, Harley, go get me my newspaper, then go and make some breakfast. Scoot."

Harley went off to do his bidding, and Jack carried his daughter down the winding hallways to her old bedroom.

He took off her clothes and put her to bed in her undershirt and boxers, and when he pulled the covers over her she rolled over and pulled them up further, snuggling into the pillow.

He sat on the end of the bed and patted her on the head, like he had when she was a child, and a troubled teenager.

"Don't worry, Livvie. Whatever's wrong, Daddy will fix it. And if somebody's harmed you, Daddy will fix him, too. Personally."

The Joker was a busy man, he had places to go and people to kill and plots to hatch, but his daughter came first and he decided to take the day off.

He sat down in his usual place at his table and Harley brought him his newspaper.

"Cancel all of my appointments for today, Harley, my dear. I have to take care of my daughter. And bring me the phone."

"Okay, Puddin'. Does that mean you want Joey to take care of that guy in the back room?"

"No. He'll keep for awahile. I mean all my other appointments. Hello, Erik? It's Jack. Did I wake you and Raven…I'm afraid we're going to have to re-schedule that meeting about the new project, and do you think you could have somebody take care of that record promoter, the one who's making trouble…yes I did have a lovely plan for him involving an open door, a bucket of cold oatmeal, a Slinky and a Ginsu knife, but my daughter needs me…no, nothing like the Troubles, she's just tired and overworked...yes, I think sending Victor would be excellent...tell him to write something on the wall in the blood…yes you had better tell him what to write, the man is such a fool, he'll scrawl the combination to his luggage…so hard to get good help in this business…thank you so much, Erik. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Toodles."

The Joker hung up the phone, snapped his fingers and Harley came to get it and put it back on the counter.

"How's your breakfast, Puddin'? Okay?"

"Fine. Now shoo. Go do what I told you to. Dishes first."

The Joker read his paper and ate his breakfast as Harley scampered about the kitchen, doing his bidding.

"You know, Harleykins, I'll bet it has to do with that silly plan of Eddie and the Bat's. I told Eddie to forget about it. I only hope she hasn't killed him. Either of them, actually."

"But Mistah J, Batman's your arch-enemy."

"I know. And my life would be terribly boring without him."

**II: Liv**

I felt pretty good while I was sleeping, warm and safe and happy and I realised why when I woke up to find the sun high in the sky and I realised I was back home.

I don't even know how I got there. I didn't plan to go to the docks.

I didn't go in through the ruined doors of the old warehouse, lifted up a section of floor and turn my key, make the an elevator pop up out of the ground and get in it by myself; I must have fallen asleep in the street and the old man or his crazy girlfriend found me and put me to bed.

It was the first time I'd ever done that sober, but not the first time by far.

The Joker's bunker is probably one of the most fearsome places in the world to most people, but to me its a place as safe and familiar as a nice bowl of Frosted Flakes with cold milk on it to sit and watch the Saturday morning cartoons with.

I got out of bed and walked down the old familiar hallway past the open door to the room not unlike the Batcave, the Command Room, to the place where I had sat with my Frosted Flakes and watched kiddie cartoons on TV when I was just a little girl.

Funny how so many people hate my Old Man and fear him, and so many people probably died in the soundproof rooms just down the hallway from this one, but I was just happy to be home again.

I almost ran into Harley, she was on her way to the bedroom, and she had cleaned and ironed my Levis and my Rolling Stones baseball shirt .

"I was just bringin' you your clothes, Miss Livvie." She told me.

I stood there in the hallway and got dressed while Harley burbled on, happily about the old man getting out of Arkham and me being there and all of us being like a happy family until I couldn't take it, anymore, and I gave her a few bucks that she'd washed in my pocket and asked her to go out and get me a half a dozen donuts, just so I could get some peace.

Since I'm her beloved "Puddin's" daughter, she was off like a shot.

I can only take Harley in small doses. The Old Man must really like her, because I don't know how else he can keep from wringing her neck.

Meanwhile, I sort of shambled into the TV room, which is where I located the Old Man, and I must have looked like ten pounds of shit shoved into a five pound sack, because he almost turned a little whiter and he sat me in a chair.

"Livvie? You look terrible! Not as bad as you did when I brought you down here, but terrible, nonetheless? What's the matter?"

"I am completely fucking screwed." I said.

"I'm sure you aren't. Shouldn't you be at that Superhero Thingy, being exalted above mere mortals? I thought this was your rilly big shoe? No tears, now. Come on, let's go in the living room, and we can sit down and have some coffee. Then you can tell Daddy what's wrong and we'll fix it."

I started to feel better almost immediately.

Sometimes, there's no substitute for family, you know?

"I'm between a rock and a hard place, Daddy. I've been double-crossed and triple-crossed so many times I feel like a chick in a porno movie. I don't know who's fuckin' me, an' I can't tell which end is up. Are you in on this plot?"

The Old Man laughed at my joke, and then he got serious.

Well, serious for him.

"Up to my eyeballs, Livvie. The whole damn silly thing was my idea. But, before you commit patricide, hear me out! I'm afraid it's mutated beyond what I originally had planned. I don't think you need a test. I thought you needed your own arch-nemesis. But in that Greenie has turned out to be Paulie, well, the whole thing's gone to Hell. All my plans go to Hell for the same reason. Too complicated. And it started out so simply. I wanted to set up a nice little friend for you to play with, and I was just trying to lure an inconvenient fellow supervillain into a trap. Let me explain. When I first met Paulie, I was struck by how much he looked like our Eddie. So much so that there had to be some relation. And when Oswald and I had to practically knock him out to keep him from throttling Edgar…Jacobi, I mean, Moloch…I was sure of it. Now Edgar is really a two-bit excuse for a supervillain and he's becoming tiresome. No one in the Society is fond of him; he's so…second-rate. Fooling around with drugs and hookers like some kind of common street thug. Now if he was going to be paroled on schedule, I know his ways, he would have crashed the little party that your friends are having Greenie throw for you, and I was counting on you not having that little espirt-de-corps that heroes and their arch-nemesis have and simply getting rid of him for me, instead of putting him away like Eddie always does. But then I said to myself, Jack, you can't ask Livvie to do away with the man for you. Why should she do your dirty work? So then I changed my plan. You see, I can't just kill him. Where's the fun in that? And how would it look to the rest of the Society if I was to start simply shooting members I didn't like, as if we were the Mafia? True, things were easier in the old days, when I used to work with the Italians, before my little impromptu makeover, but still, they'd ask me to step down as chairman, for doing a thing like that. There has to be some kind of diabolical plan, or it's not in comportment with our high standards of villainy, which I personally set for everyone. But, if you make Edgar look very bad in the press, if you make a real joke out of him, then, well, I have an excuse to toss him out of the Society, in which case I can just kill him, because then he would be nobody. But, as Edgar had been turned down for parole, and I was approved, that plan's kaput. Then again, it would be terrible for poor Eddie if I deprived him of his arch-nemesis. But I would have liked to have at least had him out of the Society. That was my plan, at least."

I had to go over it a few times in my mind, and like most of the Old Man's plots, it made a sense if you used _Alice In Wonderland_ logic.

"So where does Eddie fit into all this? And my stepfather?"

"Bats? Oh, that's easy. He's such a worry-wart. He thinks you need a test. Now, Eddie and I noticed you seemed awfully depressed after your meeting with Greenie and we thought it was just because you found and lost your arch-enemy so quickly. Now that we know that Greenie is Paulie and Paulie is Greenie, everything has become incredibly complicated. Eddie has led Paulie to think he's testing the Harlequin, which is you, but Paulie doesn't know that, when, really, you're testing Paulie. So, actually neither Eddie or I are double-crossing you, unless you consider it a double-cross that Eddie's making you double-cross Paulie, which I think he's only doing to see if Paulie has the balls to be a mask, which I don't think he does. Speaking of which, why are you thinking about whacking Paulie out? I think that would only complicate things more?"

"Because I'm worried he's a real, genuine supervillain." I answered.

The Old Man's lip trembled, and his eyebrow twitched, and then he couldn't help it any more, he just started to laugh.

Hysterically.

"Paulie? Paulie, a real supervillain? Don't go killing Paulie on that account! He's no villain. I only invited him into the society as part of my plan, and he only accepted because I lied to him and told him he could be a supervillain without harming anybody. The only reason he ended up on my side of the cape at all is his own stupidity, which, I suppose, his encounter with you is going to rectify."

I felt a whole lot of things.

The first thing was sweet, flooding relief that I probably wasn't going to have to kill my friend, who was my partner's nephew.

The second was hurt.

Real, genuine hurt.

And let me tell you, when somebody like me feels hurt, they don't cry, they get mad.

Real mad.

Incandescently psychotically full of wild uncontrollable fucking ultraviolent rage.

It had been building up in me for a couple of days, but hearing the whole scheme put into words, that really made me boil over with fury.

I jumped up and started pacing the room and raving.

"Uh-oh." The Old Man said.

"How could they do this to me, Daddy? My step-father! My partner! And to Paulie, who's as much a supervillain as Mickey Mouse is? How can they be so fuckin' cruel to both of us?" I demanded.

The Old Man did his best to frown.

"Personally, I think Eddie just wants to set you on his nephew and teach him a lesson he'll never forget in how he never, ever wants to be a supervillain. Somebody has to teach the kid a lesson, and as you've said, you're his friend. Your fellow heroes know that, and they know you won't really harm him. Just scare some sense into him. And Bats is such an o ld lady when it comes to you. He's seen you at your worst so often he needs extra assurances that you are really going to be alright. Honestly, I wouldn't mind them either. You forget, Livvie, Daddy knows where all your bodies are buried. Literally, and figuratively. It's been embarrassing in the past for both of us. Hello, Bats? It's Joker. Livvie's turned up here. Penguin found her lying in the street in front of the building and brought her in. No, she's just drunk. And it was only a flesh wound. Another binge, I think. I'll take care of her and send her home as soon as I can. Toodles. Very embarrassing, indeed."

The Old Man had a point, there.

"So, what should I do, Daddy?"

"For one thing, I absolutely forbid you to murder most of the founding members of the Watchmen, the Avengers and the Justice League. You'll put me and my associates out of business. Play their silly little game and beat them all at it. Do them one better and show them that my little girl is nobody's fool."

"Without killing anybody? Goddamn it, I wanna kill somebody for doin' this to me!"

The Joker waved his hand, dismissively.

"Anybody can kill someone. I was nine the first time I killed someone, and you were eleven. A child can do it. Or a dumb cop or a dumb hood. Not anyone can be a mask, though, on either side of the cape. No, my dear, you have to do something big. Something dramatic. Flashy. Devious. Unforgettable! Something I would do, except, the good guys version."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Well, I know that Paulie's going to resurrect some old Flash Gordon kind of plot to lure you, and I know you have to come up with something better than that. I have faith in you. Now, it just so happens I know all about Paulie's hideout…because I used to own it. You see, Livvie, I planned for this contingency. You don't plan to fail, my dear, you fail to plan. Harley! Bring me those warehouse plans! Harley? Where the hell did that girl go?"

"I sent her to go get me some donuts. If she didn't stop chirping at me, I was going to break her face."

"I know the feeling. Nevermind, I'll get them myself."

**III: Joe Mac**

Joe McClatchey, otherwise known as Joe Mac had a pretty ordinary New York kind of life, and had Liv Napier not fallen into it when they were both seven years old it would have stayed that way.

His family still lived in Brooklyn and his father owned Trivelino Mac's, named for Liv, as it was their gift from her father for having taken care of Liv for four years.

Joe Mac lived in an apartment on the upper floor of the brownstone one Nite Owl owned in Manhattan, and worked for another Nite Owl at his garage, which was in walking distance.

Hollis Mason was pretty much the go-to mechanic for every mask in New York, and Joe was his heir apparent.

Liv had set him up with Hollis, as well.

Having grown up poor in East New York, Joe was a practical man, and he never mistook what he had with Liv for romantic love, even though she was the first girl he ever slept with, a continuing situation.

But he did love her; Liv was his best friend in the whole world and he had loved her the longest. Before she met Logan who was loyal and true, and Tony who was always trying to lure her and ending up with an empty trap, and Eddie whose fierce midnight in a coal mine black heart muttered her name with its every beat, there was Joe Mac, her best friend since she was just a little girl.

And Joe also looked out for her; he was Liv's eyes and ears on the street.

Joe was the strong, silent type.

He was a tall, lanky man with strawberry-blond hair and a dark blond moustache and sideburns, with a reputation of being quiet and stalwart. He knew how to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut, and he listened carefully at all times, to anything he heard which might affect any of the masks he knew, especially Liv.

Like Benny Grossmann, Joe Mac knew where all the bodies were buried, but, unlike Benny, he never breathed a word about it.

He was surprised when he came in at ten the day the Superhero Summit was set to begin in DC that Liv was already there, under the hood of the Wildcat in her coveralls that said "Napalm" on them.

Joe Mac never called her Napalm, like Eddie, he didn't like it.

It made him suspicious that she wasn't at the summit; she was supposed to be inducted into the Justice League as a full member in the second week. SO what was she doing working on the car, doing minor shit after it was already ready to go.

Then there was the way Crazy Paulie had been acting all year.

Some nut had been jumping around Joe Mac's old neighbourhood in Bensonhurst in a second-rate green mask costume and was jumping around his new neighbourhood in same, until Liv and Eddie put him away.

Only a month later he was back on the street in a fancy new costume, which meant that when he went upstate to Arkham he got some of the big boys to put money behind his crazy ass.

His crazy ass that had disappeared and reappeared around the same time as Crazy Paulie returned from supposedly working for wages in the snow with his face rearranged for him.

Joe Mac didn't like it.

He waited for Paulie Tuesday night, he knew the corner where Paulie went down to get the A-Train to go back to Bensonhurst and Joe jumped him and pinned him to the wall.

Joe Mac was as tall as Paulie, but not as heavily built; but he was wiry and strong and spent the time working that Paulie spent lying on his ass; he was sure he could take him.

"Joe Mac? What the fuck?" Paulie asked.

For his part, he'd already had his ass beat by his uncle this week, and he was just beginning to feel like the pain might go away, someday, so he didn't want to get into it with his friend.

Joe slammed Paulie against the wall, again.

"Shut the fuck up, Paulie! I know what you been doing and who you are and I hate to do it because we're friends, but I'm gonna stop you before you do what you're gonna do to Liv."

"What? Jesus, Joe, look at me, I'm already all beat to hell! My Uncle Eddie got there before you did. Look man, it's a put up job. I'm supposed to set the Harlequin up. The Bat and The Comedian are behind it. It's like a training thing, and if I pull it off, I might get to do this mask trip for real. I swear, Joe, I'm on the level, man. And Napalm has nothing to do with it. I'm not bein' a pussy, Joe, but I'm hurtin' man. Look at my face. Gimme a break, huh?"

He didn't know that Liv was the Harlequin.

Joe almost laughed.

"Oh yeah? How do I know you're not bullshitting me, man?"

"Just let me live long enough to get to that pay phone. C'mon Joe Mac, you know me. You know I ain't the villain type. Cut me a little slack."

The two young men walked across the street and Paulie got on the phone.

"I had to page him."

"We'll wait."

"Joe—"

"Don't talk to me, Paulie. What the fuck were you thinking?"

"The wrong shit."

The phone began to ring and Joe answered it.

"What?"

"Eddie? It's Joe Mac. Paulie just told me a story about something really stupid he's done and I wanted to know if it was true."

"It's true. Paulie's on the up and up. You got eyes and ears for this, Joe?" the Comedian asked.

"Yeah."

"For me and the kid?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Watch him. Watch her, too. I'm goin."

"Okay Eddie. Bye."

Joe hung up.

"Okay Paulie. You and me are going to my Dad's joint, and you are gonna tell me what kind of shit is going down here? You dig?"

"You know who the Comedian is?"

"I know who everybody is, Paulie."

"It's a long story, Joe."

"I got time."

"Yeah, but where's your end on this?"

Think fast, Joe.

He doesn't know that Liv and the Harlequin are the same person and it looks like Bruce and Eddie want to keep it that way.

"You're messin around with Eddie's partner, and Eddie is Liv's old man. That's close enough to her for me."

"Okay, Joe. I can't tell youse my plan, but I'll let you in on what's goin on."

"Cool. C'mon, we'll take the truck from the garage. Bein on the subway this time of the night ain't safe even for the Green Jackal. Man, that s one serious fuckin' pounding you took. Didja pass out?"

"Fuck no."

"So, Eddie got that mad at you, huh?"

"Not really. He got mad at the Green Jackal. I didn't tell him it was me. I tried to disguise my voice and kinda sound like Clint Eastwood in those Man With No Name movies, but when he really started pounding me and I was yellin' at him if he wanted me to roll over he'd hafta kill me first, I was hurtin' too bad to keep up the act."

Joe Mac and Crazy Paulie got in the truck, and Paulie took a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol out of his pocket, and took two.

"Paulie, you really are fuckin' crazy, you know that?"

"Runs in the family, Joe."

**Wednesday**

**II: Liv**

When I woke up in my old bedroom at the Joker's bunker, I woke up choking on a scream, that's how mad I was.

I thought maybe I might sleep it off a little, but I went to bed mad, tossed and turned for half the night, got a few hours of nightmares in and woke up furious.

This was supposed to be my time, yunno? After eight years of hearing from all directions that I was never gonna make it as a mask, next week I was being inducted into the Justice League at the Superhero Summit, in front of almost every mask in America.

I had planned to finish up my supercar and show it off to the press, sit on the hood in my Fuck Me, Daddy costume with women's underwear on, smile and be famous and have everybody kiss my ass for me, for once, then go up to the suite that was provided to us under the aegis of the good old US of A, and have a good time with Eddie peeling the whole works off me.

Instead I had this Green Jackal shit to deal with, and I didn't know who I was madder at.

Paulie for becoming a half-assed supervillain and making me and Eddie look like fucking chumps, Eddie and Bruce for setting up this little scam for me to fight Greenie, or Eddie for thinking I betrayed him by getting into some weird costume party good cop, bad cop, sex thing with Paulie, just because Paulie was my age and he looked like him.

I mean, what the fuck did Eddie really think of me that he figured I'd see Paulie in a pair of tights and go, oh boy, it's my friend Paulie, and he's beat up too bad to say no and he doesn't even know its me, tee-hee, he looks just like Eddie, lemme get some of that? Like it would never occur to me that fucking Eddie's nephew who was like a son to him and also a supervillain would be professionally embarrassing and personally devastating?

Like I really was some kind of two-bit, no good, drunken shanty Irish whore who would do just about anything for a dirty cheap thrill.

Maybe Tony was right. Maybe the thought did cross my mind for about three seconds, but, Jesus, a lot of thoughts cross a person's minds when crazy shit happens that they'd never do anything about, and tearing off the mask of some supervillain and thinking it might just be your friend who looks like your partner who's also your ol' man under it is some pretty fucking crazy shit.

As for Bruce, he never wanted to give me the goddamn benefit of the doubt, not since I was 16 years old. I'm his arch-enemy's daughter. Yeah, I look more like my Ma than the Old Man, but Jack Napier's my father. Who the fuck am I gonna look like? The milkman? Every time Bruce looks at me, he sees the Joker. He can't help that, sure, but I can't help it, either, can I?

Like that time down in TJ. Okay, so nobody tried to kill me, or Tony Stark, we were just smashed out of our gourds, but Bruce never even gave it a thought that somebody might have been after us and I wasn't just drunk. He always assumes the worst about me. He looks at me and he sees my father, he can't help himself, I guess. Still, all these years and all this training and after he's seen how far I've come and how hard I worked to get here, he wants me to take a final exam in being a mask because he's afraid that blood is blood and blood rules out and that if he lets me into his precious Justice League and I fuck up, it's on his head.

You know, he's your dog, Charlie Brown.

And you want to know who trusts me, implicitly, who's confident in my abilities and who believes in me, wholeheartedly?

My father.

The Bad Guy.

The Absolute Dictator of the Society of Bad Guys.

The Old Man planned the whole thing to set me up with my own arch-nemesis and remove Moloch.

Not only didn't he doubt my abilities, he took it for granted that I could snuff the guy.

I'll bet I could get into the Society of Supervillains in about a minute, with no bullshit at all.

My fucking enemies fear me, sure, but they respect me, too.

How come I can't get the same respect from my friends?

From my step-father?

From my partner?

I thought about driving up to Arkham and giving Eddie's arch-nemesis two in the head, just to fuck with him.

I mean, how do you really think I felt? My partner and my stepfather, both who have professed to love me, one thinks I'm some thoughtless cock-hungry whore and the other thinks I'm a witless, irresponsible drunken thug and a congenital psychopath.

Fucking great, you know?

The good part of the day was that Old Man had a lot of information for me, good information. He owns the warehouse Paulie's operating out of, so I got plans, keys, codes, a map, the works.

At least I know somebody has my back in all this.

And even though it was all his fault, the crazy son of a bitch, I felt bad for Paulie. Like the Old Man said, he was everybody's fucking patsy in this scheme, and here I was, having to make a patsy out of him, as well.

I was so goddam mad I considered giving him his chance to ball the Harlequin. If I left the mask on, he'd never know it was me. Just to spite those fucks, I should make my whole plan consist of getting incredibly fucking drunk and making a good show of it, and just fuck the shit outa good old Paulie, right in front of everybody.

He oughta get something out of it, the poor bastard.

But then when he found out the Harlequin was me, he'd be guilty as hell and we probably wouldn't be able to be friends, anymore, and I'd just be convincing Eddie and Bruce I was everything they thought I was, so I figured that was no good.

So here I was in a situation I couldn't fight my way out of or fuck my way out of, which is usually what I do when I'm mad, but this time I had to calm myself down and think my way out of it.

Which was hard to do, because, if you want to know the truth, I had this feeling like I was unstuck in time.

You know the feeling.

When something happens that's so weird and radical and completely fucked up that it just knocks you right out of the normal orbit of your life. All those places you went to in your mind that were safe, all the things you thought of to make yourself able to not hide under your bed with a bottle of whiskey all day, every day, they're all gone.

Stripped away.

And places all around you that you've seen every day of your life look like they might as well be from another planet, and you feel like you are another planet, alone and naked in vacuum of space, spinning into the cold stars.

I was walking again, this time to the nearest subway station.

People always look at me on the subway like I'm some kind of criminal, which is pretty funny, considering.

I didn't really know where I was going, I just needed to ride around and get my head together.

I was only on the train a few minutes when I saw Paulie get on.

The bandages were off his face, and the swelling had gone down, so he didn't look like the Mummy, anymore, he had just the piece of tape on his nose, but the stitches were still in, so he'd moved on to looking like Frankenstein.

Like Eddie as Frankenstein. Now that he'd had to shave off his whole beard because of the stitches in his chin, he looked like Eddie in a long wig.

Paulie saw me sitting there, and I guess I must have looked as bad as I felt, because there he was, his face all banged up and tape on his ribs and today being the first day he could open his left eye and he was worried about me.

"Napalm, you look like hell! Are you alright? Whatever it is, you can tell me. Trust me. You know I'll keep my mouth shut."

That's when it his me like a ton of bricks.

Yeah, I could get Paulie to level with me, if I levelled with him, and, why shouldn't I level with Paulie?

Paulie had learned everything he knew the same place I learned a lot of what I know, at Eddie's knee.

And I had known Paulie longer than I had not known him.

I could trust Paulie.

He would keep his mouth shut.

Bruce wanted me to use my brains, my devious detective-type brains to work this out, and not my fists or my guns, that was what I was being tested on.

Okay, Bats, you want it?

You fuckin' got it, man.

"Paulie, you don't know it yet, but you and I have been, by my count, triple-crossed."

"We have? By who?"

"Everybody. Let's get off at the next stop, we gotta get on a different train and get back to my place. You and me, we gotta talk."

For the double cross on him, I was fine with being under my stepfather's roof, just fine.

**III: Paulie**

Paulie was pretty quiet on the two trains they had to take to get to Long Island, and he just sat on a bench with his hands jammed into his pockets while Napalm went to the pay phone to call Alfred and ask him to pick them up.

It all went back to that terrible day he went off half-cocked and fucked up everybody's life, including his.

Paulie used to relive it, almost every night in his bed at Arkham, and since he got out of the joint it was bothering him even more.

He was fighting with the Harlequin, and he lost Rosie's knife, and she had him pinned, and punched him in the face and ripped his mask off, and then…

Then she stopped.

And he rolled her over and pinned her, to try and get away, and then she made that mocking pass at him, and knocked him out.

But when she saw his face, she stopped.

And when he came to, his mask was on.

He thought he'd put it on, but he couldn't remember.

But maybe she had.

Why the fuck would the Harlequin put his mask back on?

Unless, for some reason, she didn't want the Comedian to know who he was.

Or she didn't want to face it, herself.

Napalm came back and sat beside him.

"Alfred should be here in a few minutes. Now you look upset. What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid of what you're gonna tell me."

"You should be, Paulie. You and me, we are in some serious shit. But don't worry. I'm a fuckin' super-genius, right? I can think our way outa this, an' I still got some friends in high places and aces up my sleeve. You just gotta be cool. Ya dig?"

Paulie nodded.

He fished for a cigarette, and found he was out.

Napalm offered him one of hers.

***

They sat around in the living room of Napalm's "wing" of the mansion, and watched a little TV and Napalm let him have one of Logan's expensive imported German beers that he kept in her fridge and they sat there and watched a re-run of an old Beverly Hillbillies episode, and then, when it was over, she turned off the TV.

"Okay, Paulie, here it is. I'm gonna give it to ya straight. You know how Eddie's the Comedian, right?"

Paulie nodded.

"Yeah, well, I'm the Harlequin."

Did she say that?

Yes.

She did.

"Paulie?"

"I thought you might be, but I didn't want to believe it."

"Yeah. That's how I felt about you being the Green Jackal."

"Jesus, now I'm glad I didn't ball you. That would have made everything a lot worse."

"You don't have a thing for me now, do you, Paulie?"

"No. Jesus, you're my uncle's old lady, no, hell no! So why are you telling me this? Wait! Wait a fucking second! If you're the goddamn Harlequin, and you know all about my plan for the Harlequin, then why the fuck do you need a test from…unless…What the fuck is Uncle Eddie up to? What is this, some kind of double cross? What's he tryna do, make a fucking patsy outa both of us?"

Paulie was mad, and the more he thought about it, the madder he got.

"That's what I said. It's a real cosy plan him and, uh, Batman have cooked up. One more test for the Joker's little girl before the JLA deigns to accept her, and let's try Paulie to see if he has what it takes to be a mask. They're trying to play us off each other. Make a fuckin' horse's ass outa both of us, in fronta everybody in the whole mask world. You think you gotta put on this supervillian act to test the Harlequin, and I gotta find a way to test you all by myself and prove I'm worthy. Worthy, my rosy red Irish ass! Yeah, well, I gotta good mind to join the goddam Avengers, instead."

"But they didn't count on us pullin' a double cross on them, right?"

"Right. They never figured we'd get in on this, together. So, I say, let's give 'em the ol' rilly big shoe. Show 'em that we both got what it takes and leave 'em with egg on their faces."

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"Just what you were doin'. Don't let on you know nothin' about nothin'. Let 'em think I'm a dumb whore who thinks with her pussy and her fists and that you're some kinda overblown comic book fan. That works to out advantage. Now, tell me, you got your shit together you need for your plan?"

"How do you know what my plan is?"

"I talked to my father."

"Whaddya think?"

"What happened, Paulie? Why not tie 'em to the train tracks and curl your moustache as the 6:10 to Long Island bears down?"

"What can I say? I gotta flair for the dramatic. That's pretty much all I got, though."

"Yeah, I thought so. Don't worry. See, nobody knows that you know I'm the Harlequin, and who else would you go to for help but your good buddy Napalm, who knows a lot of masks, and works in a lab? I got a mask friend of mine involved in this already, between the two of us, comin' up with a heated mixing tank, a shitload of dry ice, a lift chair on a pulley system and a guy to install it at your factory is child's play. And I know two masks, right now; I can get to be your superhereoes in peril."

Paulie was beginning to catch on.

"Oh, I get it! You, as Napalm, fix me up with them, and I lay it on thick, you gotta help me, I gotta prove myself to the Harlequin, I'm so hot for her, oh my God, I'm just some dumb punk who's led around by his dick. Right?"

"Riiight. And meanwhile, you and me and Rosie and Skinny, we plan this thing. I mean like a fucking play. Are they at the warehouse?"

"They will be, tonight."

"Right. We'll write the script tonight, and tomorrow, after I get my source to put everything in place, we rehearse. Then, on Friday, the curtain goes up on our little show. And the surprise ending."

"What surprise ending?"

Napalm smiled her Jack Napier smile.

She told him.

Like her father had said, something dramatic.

Flashy.

Devious.

Unforgettable.

Paulie's face went slack with shock for just a minute and then he smiled a real Eddie Blake kind of grin.

"Oh man, that is evil! Fuckin' diabolical!"

"So, are you in?"

"Fuck yeah, I'm in. Nobody makes a patsy out of Crazy Paulie. After all, I'm the Freak King of New York. If I'm gonna run this show, someday, I gotta reputation to maintain."

"Sure do. And nobody fucks with Napalm. Nobody. Go get us a couple more of Logan's beers. I'll replace them."

**Washington D.C., Ritz-Carlton Hotel, Site of 34****th**** Annual Superhero Summit**

**III: Eddie**

Eddie had spent the afternoon with the pretty red-haired girl with the slow, lilting, sleepy Southern accent that a lot of these DC broads had.

He'd had the blonde girl over the second night and decided he liked the redhead better and called her back.

She was a real nice kid, not like some of these nuts who glommed onto him, and he would rather have still been in bed with her than at a goddamn black-tie dinner in a roomful of people in tuxes and dresses wearing masks.

Unlike most of the other masks in the room, Eddie had his costume on.

If he had to sit around all night in a suit, he wanted it to be the one he was most accustomed to.

Contrary to the shit that the papers published, that whole Justice League versus the Avengers shit versus the X-Men versus the Watchmen superhero rivalry shit was just that, shit.

You had enough problems with the goddamn supervillains and the goddamn cops wo were to clean to play along or too dirty to do their jobs and the goddamn people yelling they didn't want vigilantes at the same time as they read every piece of shit magazine article about the personal lives of masks without taking it out on each other.

Everybody was pretty social at these things, and everybody was ready to have a good time and they usually had it, too, and on Uncle Sam's dime.

The Comedian had been attending these little shindigs since FDR threw the first one in 1941, and there was a lot of shit that went on that never made the papers.

A whole lotta shit, and he was in a position to know, because he and Lucky Jim had personally caused a good bit of it.

But in-between enjoying the little two week Satyricon the good old US of A threw for you in appreciation of getting your ass kicked and saving the world all year, there was all this formal shit, and the formal shit was boring as hell.

Last year had been boring as two hells because Logan never showed up; it made Eddie wish he hadn't showed up, either.

Steve stick out like a sore thumb, he was wearing his costume, too.

"Where's ya tux, Sarge?"

"It's with yours at the cleaners, Eddie. You look bright-eyed and bushy tailed for a guy who's been shacked up with a girl half his age all afternoon."

"How'd you know about that?"

"My suite's next to yours. Me and Bernie had the TV up all the way and we could still hear her. I don't know what you do to women, makes 'em scream like that."

"Professional secret, Steve. The poor kid. She was pretty worn out. So, I hadda send her home. She was no Liv, I can tell you that."

Cap laughed.

"So, how is Naplam? I heard it was bad."

"It was. The kid found out that death wasn't all that sexy when he was comin' for her. She healed up good, but she's got this project she's workin on."

"She'll be here before Monday, won't she? I thought Napalm was coming with you. She's still being inducted into the Justice League, right?"

Eddie looked into his glass and laughed in a way that didn't sound like the thought anything was very funny.

"Yeah. She is. If I know the kid, she's already got her entrance planned. So, where the fuck is Logan?"

"I'm not sure. Nobody's sure. You know how he can be. Oh, no, here they come. The so-called gentlemen of the press. I'll talk you you later, alright, Eddie?"

"Goddamn vultures. I'll be at the bar."

That pissed Eddie off. He got to talk to Steve for all of ten minutes about before fifteen reporters came along with Captain America this, and Captain America that, so Eddie just went to the bar, and sat down at the furthest corner stool there was, and commenced drinking with both fists.

"Jesus, a guy can't even talk to his own fuckin' friends with all these fuckin' reporters crawling up your ass. Fuck 'em. They wanna story? I'll give the sonsabitches a fuckin' story." He told his glass of Guinness.

The Comedian had been at it about a half-hour before the thing that almost every superhero invited to the summit had been praying not to happen, happened.

"Hey, bub. That's my goddamn seat you're sitting in."

"Logan! Ya ol' sunnvabitch! Ya made it! C'mon, siddown, siddown!"

All eyes were on the two men who had slipped far below the dress code, Eddie in his costume and Wolverine in jeans, boots and an undershirt, none of which were altogether clean, sitting at the bar, getting louder and drunker with the dwindling of every cigar.

The Comedian and Wolverine, however, were oblivious, they were just having a good time.

"Where the fuck is Liv? This is her big deal, ain't it?"

"Somethin' came up. She's got some work to do before bullshit, Logan. Ya wouldn't believe it even if I toleja. Thing is, I might have a little job to do, some the end of the week. What are you doin' Friday night?" Eddie said

_Snikt!_

"Usin' these to give the business to whoever's fuckin' with our Liv an' your family."

They had met, wounded, in a trench in 1943, and since then, Eddie Blake and Jim "Logan" Howlett had each other's backs.

Sometimes Eddie wanted to tell Logan about Weapon X, and his part in making sure nobody snuffed Lucky Jim as he wandered in the wilderness, but, some things, a man is better off not remembering.

The Comedian wished he could be so lucky.

"What would Charlie Xavier say about that?" Eddie grinned.

"He'd have to understand."

They both started to laugh.

Whereas Superman didn't touch alcohol, Captain America wasn't above having a drink or two, especially with two old army buddies that he knew he'd better keep an eye on.

"More war stories? Are you two going to sit here and tell the same war stories all night? Because if you are, I've got a few I'd like to tell."

"We're tellin' war stories about the kid. You don't know some a' these. G'wan, tell Steve about the kid's summer vacation in Canada."

"I heard it, Eddie. I heard it in detail that if Logan told it in front of you, you'd break both his legs. Besides, Bruce is sitting right over there. I'm sure he doesn't want to hear it."

"My hat's off to ya, Eddie. That girl is fuckin' mad, bad and dangerous to know. Still. She woulda killed a lesser man than me. If I had any sense I would have just run like hell the night after I met her, but I figured, what the fuck, this is supposed to be a vacation, I might as well have some fun. I spent the rest of the summer until we got back down here drunker than I had ever been in my life. We must have busted up every dive bar between here and Vancouver. All it was for two weeks was drive, fuck, drink, and fight. And that was without the Troubles. In that order. I, me, the goddamn Wolverine had to give the kid a lecture about her shocking use of excessive ultraviolence. By the time I got outa that Wildcat with that wildcat I was ready to kiss the ground and thank God that I was still alive. It was a helluva vacation, though. I had a real good time. Every Thursday, I gotta spend the day in bed with the shades drawn and an ice bag in my lap. Here's to you, Eddie. To your health. You need it."

Eddie and Logan clinked half-empty bottles of Jack Daniels and had a drink.

"You bet your ass I do. And it's not as easy as it looks. The kid, she's a strange bird. She's like two people, and ya never know whick one of 'em or combination of 'em your get on any fuckin' day. For one thing, she's incredibly fuckin' smart. She leaves these fuckin' books around, I pick 'em up, and they might as well be written in Chinese. On the other hand, she reads superhero fuck books. Collects 'em. You gotta knock on the door to her bedroom, because she might be in there readin' one of 'em one–handed. But, she sits there and talks to the Doc, on his level, and she knows what he's sayin. On the other hand, sometimes she's like a goddamn wild animal. She goes outside and howls at the full moon, and when she gets really mad, she snarls. Roars like, too. And she sniffs everything. Sniffs her food before she eats it, sniffs the air, sniffs at people. Makes goddamn funny animal noises sometimes insteada talking, and I know her so well, ya know I know what they mean? But she's a good kid. Helluva mask. Helluva broad, too. It took me awhile ta get used to her, but, yunno, now, things are goin alright. I think. The kid don't drink as much as she used to, and she doesn't have the Troubles. At least not until all this shit happened."

"You mean the Green Jackal thing?" Logan asked.

Eddie looked up from his glass.

"Did I tell you guys about that?"

"Eddie, you got so drunk last night we had to put your ass to bed. You told us the name of the first broad you ever gave the time to." Cap told him.

"Yeah, well, this shit is gettin' to me. I nearly killed both of 'em. My partner and my nephew. In one night." He confessed.

"Jesus, Eddie, why don't you call this shit off? Me an Jimmy both think you're full of shit. Somebody named Napalm doesn't need a final exam in being a mask." Steve said

"It's not for her, goddamnit! It's for…you guys know who. I'll bet I didn'y tellya the punchline of life's latest joke on Eddie Blake. The dumb bastard kid wants to put his sister's tights back on and bat for our team."

"Oh shit!" Wolverine opined.

"They'll murder him!" Cap agreed.

"Yeah, I know that. And you know that. But he don't know that. This test is for him. If he seems like he has what it takes I'll hand him off to the Boy Scout. He won't get in too deep that way."

"That might work. Until Magneto takes over and makes him the King of New York." Logan chuckled.

"Whaddya think, Sarge?" Eddie asked.

Cap frowned as he stood up to take his leave.

"I think I know why you look so goddamn miserable. Have another drink, soldier. This one's on me."

***

Eddie and Logan had a few more drinks, together and then a real hot-looking blonde in one of those skin-tight X-Men uniforms you could see her nipples through came and sat at the bar with him.

She was built kind of like the blonde girl he'd met at the airport, one of those Fritz broads who had tits as big as your head.

She kind of reminded him of Sophie.

Crazy Jew bitch had kept her figure up pretty well, but, back when they were both kids, and he first met her, she looked a lot like the this doll.

"Man, is this party a fuckin' drag." She complained.

"Yeah, this is the boring part, Mel. You ever meet Eddie?"

"Not officially."

The girl leaned over Logan and put out her hand.

One of Logan's.

Natch.

They didn't used to call him Lucky Jim for nothing.

When Eddie shook the broad's hand he got this funny sizzling feeling that went from the back of his neck down his spine, his balls seized up and he got hard so fast that his codpiece cut him off at the pass.

He felt like if he didn't have this girl, right now, he was going to tear his own skin off.

"Honey, unless you want me to do something I know neither one of us is gonna regret, you better let go of my hand." He announced.

"Oh, did you feel that? Sorry. I'm Mel Reinhardt. They call me Femme Fatale, because I have a real bad effect on most cats. Sorry about the thing with my powers, but, you're really extra-sensitive to them. I had them under enough control that most guys who weren't mutants wouldn't even feel it. Maybe I'm just drunk."

"Doll, I ain't most guys, I'm Eddie Blake. Me and your old man usedta kill lotsa people together." Eddie replied.

Logan laughed into his glass.

The broad laughed, too.

She was giving Eddie the old eye.

He figured she could tell that whatever she had wasn't going to kill him, either.

"So, how come they call you Femme Fatale?" he asked.

"Because men have an unfortunate habit of finding a way to drop dead if they've had so much as a handshake from me. When I turn on my powers."

"Oh yeah? Well, I shook your hand, and I feel just fine."

_Snikt!_

"Hey, Eddie, do you fuckin' mind?"

"I'm just drunk, Jimmy. Don't mind me. I'm just drunk."

"Hey, Logan, relax, man. I just zapped the hell out of him. That's my powers talking."

"Yeah. Right. You don't know Eddie. Speakin' of drunk, darlin', you are really drunk. I better get you upstairs, before you start sparkin' every man in the room."

Logan got up and helped his girl out off of her barstool.

"Sorry, Jimmy. But that's some kinda mutation she's got."

"Yeah. I know. So, I'll be seein' you, Eddie. Tomorrow, lets go out an show 'em how we useta do it."

"Yeah. Put these jokers through some changes." Eddie agreed.

Time passed.

Everyone had left the bar but Eddie.

He had a lot on his mind, he just kept sitting and drinking, and thinking about his problems. He was already in a lousy fucking mood, and now, thanks to that Femme Fatale broad's powers, he was incredibly horny.

He felt like he could have hammered a two inch nail into a board with his dick.

All that would be around this hour of the night would be the real hardcore mask groupies, the freaks, the kind of broads you wouldn't want to fuck with a stolen dick.

And there wasn't much chance of beating this down.

Oh well.

Any snatch in a storm.

"Hey, is this a private pity party or can anybody join in?"

She sat down beside him, and goddamn if she didn't still look good in that costume.

Good enough to make the dark clouds hanging over him part a little.

"Sal!"

"Got it in one, Eddie. You look like I feel. Pissed off, fucked up, desperate and ready to screw anything that moves. So, how about buyin' me a drink?"

"Hey, Sal, I ain't in the mood tonight to do a little dance, shake hands, an' say I'll seeya round."

"Hell, Eddie, I'm too old for that shit. I didn't put this goddam costume on for nothing, did I? I'm gonna give you a run for your money, old man."

"You really need that drink, Sal?"

"Not especially. Let's go upstairs. I always did think your costume looked better on the floor."

**III: Steve**

"…Edith, stifle yourself…"

Click.

"…killed three people before turning the gun on himself…"

Click.

"…heyday of the sexual revolution…"

Click.

"…heeeeey, maaaan, don't bogart that joint…"

Click.

_Jesus, I'm on ice for a few decades and the whole country goes crazy. What the hell is happening to America?_

Click.

Steve Rogers turned off the television.

Eddie was at it, again.

He scowled.

Good old Eddie.

Gets up bright and early in the morning, puts whiskey in his coffee, eats a whole lot of food that doctors nowadays say will kill a man his age, shows up late for morning session, makes some sarcastic comments, takes a nap, leaves early, has three double cheeseburgers for lunch, with fries, and spends the afternoon going at it hammer and tongs with some girl half his age. Then he shows up late for evening activities, reeking of stout, reefer and sex, makes some more sarcastic comments, takes another nap, has three dinners for dinner, drinks all night long, then retires to bed with yet another girl, screaming her head off.

Did he just call her Sal?

Good old Eddie.

He never changes.

And it doesn't bother him.

Some people said that Eddie Blake was the "real" Captain America, and there were times that Steve felt like they were right, and he wanted to just hand Eddie his shield and retire.

Eddie was only five or six years younger than he was, but he didn't seem fazed at all by this strange, new America, because this was Eddie's America. Raised in an atmosphere of sick and brutal violence in a hardscrabble slum, when Cap met him at eighteen in the Pacific, the Comedian had already allegedly murdered his own father, albeit in self-defence, and attempted a violent and brutal rape on his would-be girlfriend, the Silk Spectre.

A woman with whom, it became obvious to anyone who ever knew him for longer that a day, he was genuinely and completely in love.

Sitting in a trench, with his mask on, and a few days growth of beard, smoking and eating Corn Flakes and beer out of his helmet, with a big silver spoon from God only knew where, with blood smeared all over the front of his uniform and two broken knuckles on his right hand.

He was always a good friend, and though Cap couldn't say Eddie was a good man, he was a good soldier.

There was goodness in him, it was just hard to find.

They were both born and raised in Brooklyn. Eddie had grown up in East New York and Cap in Red Hook, but they might as well have lived on two different planets.

Values, morals, it was all a joke to Eddie, who in 1944 liked to drink and smoke cigars and smoke a little tea now and then and listen to horrible jazz music and run around with loose women. In 1954 it was horrible rock and roll and they were calling them reefers and in 1964 they were calling it pot and in 1974 rock and roll had been shortened off to rock, and Cap still didn't like it, but Eddie was still a member of the record-buying public and he hadn't changed a bit.

He had always sworn like a sailor and ran around with loose women, and even though he wasn't a bad man, not completely, he was always laughingly amoral.

Liv Napier had been a nice girl. In many ways, she still was. Cap remembered her from when she was a little kid in pigtails and Keds, too. Actually, even with the years of drunkenness, brutality, ultraviolence and promiscuity in-between, she still wore pigtails and Keds, and she still had that same spunky little grin.

Liv was still a nice girl, and she was alive because Logan, a man who some people thought was no better than an animal had befriended her, and Eddie, a man who some people thought was little more than a vicious murdering psychopath hiding behind the stars and stripes, had taken her under his wing.

He loved her.

That Melanie Reinhardt girl, Logan's girl, she seemed like a really nice girl, too. And her parents turned her out in the street at 13 because she was a mutant. Just abandoned her to her fate, which was to end up broke and homeless at 20, recovering from a heroin habit, with only an 8th grade education, on Charlie Xavier's doorstep, begging for sanctuary.

It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right.

What kind of America was it that turned nice kids like Liv Napier and Mel Reinhardt into junkies and drunks and lunatics?

Maybe Eddie was right, about what he had said around the time Jack Kennedy was assassinated.

Around the time, they say, Eddie assassinated him.

"The world ain't the way you think it is, Steve. It's the way I know it is. Between the Depression and the War, that was the end. The end of Western fuckin' Civilization. People just like to play nice. Pretend nothin's wrong. But they know. Take Jack. Everybody thought he was such a fuckin' saint. Sure. He drank as much as I do and swore as much as I do, and he went through broads like most guys go through asswipe. I treat my broads better than he treats his. That's the way it is. Everybody pretends to be moral and forthright and honest and then they do whatever the fuck they want, because they know it's all a joke. And you know what the fuckin' punchline is? World's getting crazy, Cap. Everybody's losin' their marbles. Pretty soon they're all gonna stop playin' nice and just let everybody see what they really are. When that happens, everybody's gonna see there's a lot worse guys around than me. An' I can't wait for it. It'll be nice to see a little fuckin' honesty in this world."

None if it bothered Eddie. Not the youth of America turning into crazies using drugs and having sex in the streets and the parks, not the My-Lai massacre, not the tidal wave of drugs and crime, not rock music and its young stars dying like flies, not promiscuity and insanity or any of it, because that was the America that he always knew existed, the one he'd always seen.

And still he loved his country, and fought for it, even knowing it for what it truly was.

Steve knew that Clark struggled the way he struggled, but Clark still believed that it was just a phase his country was going through, that it could recover its innocence, be saved.

Not Steve.

The kids said, "America. Change it or lose it."

And his generation replied "America. Love it or leave it."

Steve Rogers thought it would have to be a little of both.

Cap shook his head.

_Snap out of it, Steve. You may not look it, or feel it, but you're an old man and you had too much to drink, tonight. These kids today didn't invent drinking and fooling around, or reefers and coke and horse, for that matter. Not like you're a priest. You brought Bernie with you, didn't you? What do you think you're gonna do when you get up off this couch and go to bed? Play cards with her? You can probably still catch a Twilight Zone re-run, or maybe I Love Lucy. Just put the TV on, quit thinking like a bitter old man. _

_You can't do that, you're Captain America._

"Steve? Are you going to sit there all night?"

He didn't turn around.

"Sorry, Bernie. I've got a lot on my mind."

She walked in front of the TV and turned it off.

"You always got a lot on your mind. Why don't you come to bed?"

"I'm not tired."

"I'm not tired, either."

**IV: Eddie**

Somewhere in the neighbourhood of 1966 or so Sally Jupiter stopped promising herself she was never going to touch Eddie Blake again, so she didn't go with him to his room under any illusions that they were just going to watch some TV.

It was always the same with her and Eddie, and the fact she moved to California didn't change things, they had plenty of flights to New York and Sally had plenty of money and plenty of free time.

She wouldn't hear from him, or see him for awhile, a long while, because she was furious with him, and then she'd get so furious with him she'd call him up so she could scream and yell at him and hang up on him. And he'd call her back a few days later laughing at her over it and they'd get to talking and then she'd be calling him on a regular basis and then they'd meet up someplace. Then meet up someplace a few times. Then meet up at his place.

After that they'd meet up about once a week, for awhile and then he'd do or say something that made her want to break his face and she'd get mad at him, and she wouldn't hear from him, or see him for awhile, a long while, because she was furious with him, and so on and so on.

They were at the beginning part, but the look on Eddie's face as he sat there, nursing his drink made her skip right to the end.

They didn't even make it to the bedroom or out of their costumes the first time, the second time they made it out of their costumes but not to the bedroom but, like they say, the third time's the charm.

Three turns at bat with Eddie and Sally was ready to go to sleep, but whatever it was that was bothering him was still bothering him, because he was wide awake.

"Alright, Eddie, I know you're not asleep, because ya snore like a fuckin' goat, and you ain't snorin'. Spill it. What's botherin' you?"

"It ain't you, Sal."

"Yeah, I figured that. C'mon, who the fuck am I gonna tell? Ya gotta talk to somebody, right?"

"I got troubles. Big troubles."

"How big?"

"The night before I left New York, I came pretty fuckin' close to murdering my partner and my nephew Paulie. With my bare hands." Eddie reported, matter-of-factly.

Sally sat up in bed.

"What? Why?"

"I went up to Arkham, to pick up Greenie, get mine and Jack and Bruce's plan going. I beat him up pretty good for trying somethin' funny with my partner, and goddamn Paulie didn't tell me it was him. Then I saw what was left of his face in the light. I ain't felt so goddamn low since that night in the trophy room; and sittin' there gettin' drunk at the house in Bensonhurst, just like I did that night, I suddenly figured out what made the kid so hot for Greenie once she got his mask off. I couldn't believe it. She broke my fuckin' heart. So I went home and unlucky for the kid, there she was, waitin' up for me. I was drunk, I was furious, and I called her a dirty fuckin' shanty Irish whore and I think that broke her fuckin' heart, and we ended up with my hand around her throat and her ready to break my arm. As it turns out, she wasn't after Paulie and he wasn't after her, and we made it up some, but the way things lie I'm not sure we're all done with tryin' to kill each other. 'Cause I know she feels like I stabbed her in the back with this test and that now me and Bruce are makin' her stab Paulie in the back, and I'm not so sure that I don't believe that just for a second when she found Paulie in that costume, beat up and terrified, whatever it is in her that made her sit on my cock and put a gun to my head didn't tell her just for a minute that he looks just like me and he didn't know it was her under the mask and he wasn't in a position to say no, so why not just take him?"

Sally thought for a minute about that terrifying night in the trophy room.

Liv had that same streak in her, the one that told her that if you had a shot at something you wanted and nobody would be any the wiser then you'd be a fool if you didn't take it, and by any means necessary.

"So what are you gonna do, Eddie?"

He shrugged.

"Wait for the kid."

"What if she's coming to kill you?"

"You know what Pop said to me and Edie, right before we put out his lights? He said it would rather be us, his own kids, than the law. Pop knew what kinda low-life sunnuvabitch he was, and he knew what kinda death he was gonna get. Me, I may not be the same kinda scum as he was, but I know what kinda man I am and I know what kinda death I'm gonna get, too. Better my partner than some low-life sunnuvabitch like Pop, right? Besides, Sal, I got 25 years on the kid, I'm bigger, an' older an' wiser than she is and I know just what kinda crazy she is. I'm pretty sure I can get around her."

"You sure, Eddie?"

"She's my partner, Sal. I don't need no help."

The part where she had to leave Eddie, knowing they would always be ships that passed in the night was the part that hurt the most, so she always got past that part, quickly.

Eddie wasn't all that crazy about goodbye, either; he went to take a shower.

This time, though, she stood outside the door to his suite for a long time

Sally had trained Liv since she was 11, she had been there the first moment Liv laid eyes on Eddie just as Sally was dropping her off for that Crimebusters meeting back in '66.

She still remembered that look Napalm had in her eyes when she commented that she was going to have that big bad sunnuvabitch even if it killed them both.

Sally resolved to keep her eye out for Liv.

Those two weren't going to murder each other on her watch, no matter what they had in their sick, twisted minds.

**IV: Laurie and Sally**

Jon did not consider Laurie's outbursts of temper; he had learned, while working with her father in Vietnam that feeding the fire only made the outbursts worse.

So, when she came crashing out of the bedroom of their suite, pulling a tee shirt on over her panties and cursing, he didn't say anything.

"How the hell am I supposed to sleep in this goddamn hotel with all this fucking racket going on? Don't any of these people screw at home? Is the only two weeks out of the year they do any fucking? Or is it just that we're next door to that fucking degenerate Eddie Blake! I can't wait until Napalm shows up! Then nobody in the whole hotel will get any peace? Of course, considering that they're all drunk off their asses and balling it up with their little fans, they won't notice, either!"

Jon was about to suggest that perhaps she was just feeling left out, and conduct her back to the bedroom, but Laurie crashed out the door.

He didn't go after her.

Yet.

***

"OH MY GAWD!"

Sally put her head against the door to Eddie's suite.

There had to be some reason that fate was never kind to her.

She squared her shoulders and began walking to the elevator.

"Mom? MOM! Are you just going to ignore me? Are you going to pretend you didn't just come out of that room with that animal?"

_He's not an animal, Laurie, he's just a bad man. But I like bad men. So sue me? And he's your father, show the man some respect._

"Laurel Jane, if you are going to parade around half-dressed in the hallway, screaming like a maniac, well, you're a grown woman and I can't stop you. It's your business. Just like it's my business who's room I'm in. Right now, I'm going back to mine."

Laurie blocked her path.

"I cannot believe you! You were just telling me on Monday that was it, you were done with him! Do you know how many times I've heard that?"

"Yes. And I'm going to stop saying it."

"Mother! What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Don't you talk like that to me! I'm your mother, goddamnit! I raised you! I trained you! You treat me with respect! And stay out of my private life! I'm not so crazy! Half the broads in America are crazy over Eddie. What about Liv? She's his partner! How about Sophie Grossmann? They've had a standing date on Wednesdays since 1945! I'm not the one who's sleeping with a big blue nuclear reactor, am I, cupcake?"

"That is not fair! Jon is nothing like that monster, that animal!"

"No. You're right. Eddie kills somebody if he hasta, or if they ask for it, and he does it with a gun, or with a knife, like a human being. An' he has to get mad, first. He can't calmly make himself the size of Godzilla and wave his hand and make people explode like a bag of wet mush!"

Laurie shut up, abruptly.

"Hit a nerve, did I, sweetie? Maybe yours doesn't do as much bellowing, or drinking and maybe he's got a better reputation, but he's not so different from mine, is he? And for that matter, neither are you. And neither am I. Now go back to your room. You can't stand out here in the hallway in your underpants. It ain't decent."

Sally was mad; she'd had just about enough of her own daughter trying to tell her how to run her life.

The elevator came, and she got in it.

Laurie was about to get in with her, but that was when the big blue nuclear reactor showed up, in the flesh.

"Come on, Laurie. I think you may have had a little too much to drink, tonight.

***

Jon didn't give her a chance to protest; he teleported them both back to their suite.

"I wasn't done yet!"

"Yes. I know. Laurie, you have to get over this fanatical hatred of the Comedian. I'm not too fond of the man, myself. I don't know what your mother sees in him, and as for LIv, I'm sure in the course of the past four years she's seen him do worse than even I've seen him do, so I don't know what she sees in him, either. But you can't make up their minds for them, are we are all expected to work together."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it!"

"No, but it does mean that you can't beat up an elevator in your underwear at two in the morning while screaming and foaming at the mouth in a fit of rage. Myabe you should go back to bed."

"I'm not tired!"

Jon shrugged.

"Well, you know I don't sleep."

Laurie thought that was a come-on, you never could tell with Jon, he was so emotionally remote.

Was he smiling?

Yes, he was.

"Why didn't you say something before I left the room?"

"Because I just wanted to watch the end of this movie. It wasn't very good, but I had never seen it before and it's a real novelty for me, not knowing how something is going to come out."

"You're a strange man, Jon. But I love you, anyway. How did the movie end?"

"I don't know. I've missed it."

**IV: Tony**

"Tony, just what is it that fascinates you so endlessly about my stepdaughter? I know she saved your life, and I know the two of you have become friends, but, what is it? The clean version, please."

Tony Stark, the Invincible Iron Man, he of the swashbuckling grin with that in like Flynn twinkle in his eye and a liver to match was quite good at gesturing with his drink.

He looked at Bruce Wayne, thoughtfully, and swished his drink around, clinking the ice cubes against each other and against the glass.

"She's the only person I've ever met who may be as smart and as crazy like a fox as I am. And she's a woman, to boot. I've never met a woman like her. Come to think of it, I've never met anyone like Napalm. Admit it, Bruce, she's wasting her time and her mind working for the feds. When's the last time anything remotely interesting ever came out of a government laboratory? Whatever she's working on in that dingy iron tomb that's most likely filled with carcinogens, I'll bet if she came to work for me she could finish the project in half the time. And under much better conditions. Not that I want to cut Jon off at the pass, but he's had her long enough! And I think she has superior ability as a mask. When's the last time the Comedian had a partner? Never. And who else do you know that has no powers or mutations who spars with Wolverine for fun, three days a week? There's no one like Napalm. No one in the world. So I want her. Working with me, I mean. You can't blame me."

Bruce Wayne laughed a little, and raised his eyebrow, archly.

"No, I can't. After all, I trained her. And we've worked together many times. But, what makes you think if Liv joins the private sector, she'll come to work for you when she'd have a better stake in coming to work for me? After all, I'm not leaving control of Wayne Enterprises to the dog when I shuffle off this mortal coil."

Iron Man downed his drink, emphatically, turned the glass over and smacked it on the table and then slapped his hand on to of it, resolutely.

"Doesn't matter. What you do and what I do, business-wise, it's apples and oranges. But, what kind of capiltalist would I be if I didn't take advanatge of an opportunity when it presesnted itself?"

"What opportunity is that?"

"I know what you and her partner are up to, and I think it stinks, Bruce. You'll be lucky Napalm doesn't walk the hell out on you and the Justice League for it." He announced.

He flipped the glass over, and banged it on the table.

"And if you can shift a little blame onto Jon, oh, say for being an emotionless bastard and not telling her a thing, well, then Stark Industries and the Avengers will be waiting with open arms, is that right, Tony?" Bruce asked.

The bartender set them both up with another drink.

"You laid this trap for yourself, Bruce. It's not my fault if Napalm decides she'd rather become an Avenger on Monday that a full member of the JLA. None of us have ever questioned her methods, or her motives, or expected her to jump through hoops to prove herself."

Bruce Wayne slammed his glass down so hard that he broke it.

"Where the fuck do you get off, Stark, talking to me like that? What the hell do you know about Trivelino, anyway? What, she slept with you a couple of times? That doesn't mean shit to her! So she uses you as a source of information because she knows all she has to do is crook her finger at you and you'll be there with your tongue hanging out like a junkyard dog? So what? I raised her. I trained her. I've worked with her. I'm more of a father to her than that maniac who sired her is. She's not about to stab me in the back over a little training exercise. A mere formality. You're obsessed, my friend. You want to stand next to the fire? Go right ahead. They don't call her Napalm for nothing, and you are about to get your ass burned!"

Tony was somewhat taken aback by Bruce's sudden fury, and he realised he must have touched a nerve.

Of course I touched a nerve. I'm sitting here telling the man that he may have irreperably damaged his bond with his step-daughter by betryaing her.

Why is he acting like it never occured to him?

Perhaps it hasn't.

"I'm sorry, Bruce. I assumed that when you came up with this plan that you had already thought of this. Did it ever occur to you that Liv doesn't see it as a little training exercise? I've sopken to her, and she's very upset. I called a cab to take her home on Monday night, after a meeting we had, and when I went back into Grossmann's to ask Paulie Blake and his girl if they wanted to ride along, Liv had already wandered off into the night. She feels like you've stabbed her in the back, and she just might decide that she doesn't owe you shit, anymore." he replied, as gently as possible.

The stricken look that passed over Bruce Wayne's features told Tony that no, he hadn't thought about that at all.

"You may be right. And you may think I'm a bastard for doing it to her. But I have to be sure she's ready. She's the Joker's daughter. Worse, she hasn't severed relations with her father. And what about the other masks she's close to? The Comedian. Wolverine. Rorschach. The most respectable hero she works with is me, and you know what my reputation is like, and I founded the Justice League with Clark. Sometimes I think they'd kick me out for my methods if it wasn't for him. I don't want Liv to be in the JLA beacuse she's my stepdaughter and I vouched for her. I want her to be a member on her own merits. If the price I have to pay to show the world that Liv Napier is not Jack Napier is losing her, then that's what I have to do. It's late. I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

That was typical Batman.

Cryptic and abrupt.

Tony looked down the bar, to where the Comedian and Wolverine were putting it away like the two ex-dogfaces they were.

You could tell it was bothering the Comedian, he was drinking like tomorrow wasn't coming.

Or like tomorrow was coming and Napalm was coming with it.

He overheard snatches of the conversation Eddie was having with Logan, things like "Only a few broken bones" and "just a flesh wound."

Logan knew something; he was closer to Liv than anybody in the mask community other than Eddie Blake.

Wolverine knew what Napalm knew; it was a cinch they were in it together, whatever Liv's counter-plan was, but that was a dead end, Logan would never tell.

Poor Bruce.

Poor Eddie.

But not him.

Because he was in on Napalm's plan.

He looked at his watch.

It was just about time to get into the suit, and fly back to New York for the secret rendezvous.

Okay, maybe it was a bit of a triple cross, but Napalm would forgive Eddie, eventually, he's her partner and they're in love.

Scary thought.

Extremely frightening.

She'll forgive Bruce, eventually, he's her stepfather and she lives with him.

He's just being melodramatic, and I have had too much to drink, tonight.

I'll have to get back to that five drinks a day regimen after the Summit.

And there's absolutely nothing written in stone that says you can't be with the JLA and the Avengers, and when she was done with school she'd have plenty of time to work with him and Jon.

One thing Tony Stark learned at his father's knee was that only a fool doesn't answer the door when opportunity comes knocking.

He finished his drink and walked by Logan and Eddie, and then out of the bar.

***

He told just about every girl that he was remotely interested in to drop over any time and make themselves at home, and most of them never got as far as dropping over, they were so overwhelmed by the invitation.

Those who did usually got all decked out like they were going to the Oscars to accept their statuette.

Models and actresses and starlets and debutantes.

The most beautiful and desirable women in the world.

Women most men would kill to get their hands on.

Liv took him at his word.

Sometimes he would return home at night and Liv was there, waiting, casual and impatient, acting like she owned the place

No wonder Bruce wanted to know what it was that fascinated him about a little heavily tattooed, red-haired Irish girl who had about as many battle scars as your average career black-ops operative, wore boxers under her Levis and a series of undershirts and rock band tee shirts and fatigue jackets, topped off with jump boots or dirty sneakers, capped off with some combination of blood, engine grease, and motor oil.

She had long hair and she was built like a brick shithouse, and she was pretty.

And a real red-head.

So were a lot of girls.

But none of them were Napalm.

None of them had that mad, mad, mad _savoir faire_, that merry and mischievous lust for life, that special _joie de vivre_ that only comes from the kind of complete insanity that true genius breeds.

And this was without mentioning sex.

You know a woman is special when she has just saved you life and helped you break out of a Mexican jail, and you are flying her through the air in robotic body armor and she asks you if it is possible to get it on in mid-air while wearing said armor and if it is, have you ever done so, and if not, would you like to, right now?

And what would he have done when they were in rehab and he got to the second week where you not only really want a drink but you are so horny you could hammer nails into a board with your cock had Liv not been there?

Not to mention the disappearing act she had pulled a few days ago.

He owed her for that.

And when he found her with her feet on his expensive furniture, watching an old Bogart movie on his expensive Betamax and drinking his expensive Scotch, well, that was just Napalm.

But, tonight, they had an appointment.

Business before pleasure.

"Checking in, Napalm? Would you like turndown service? Or a mint?"

"Well, I was in the neighbourhood a little early, so I figured I'd just drop in. Jarvis said you wouldn't mind."

"I don't. So, tell me, what's your plan?"

Liv took a notebook out of the pocket of her military-issue shoulder bag.

"I'm going to need an industrial sized heated mixing tank and the appropriate hookups, and a chair lift on a pulley system. I can hook them up myself, and I've already got a water source at the warehouse and the dry ice. But what I really need are some of those latex prosthetics Stark Industries makes for theatrical purposes."

"That's what you need, Napalm. It's not your plan."

"Paulie's plan is already all over town. It's not that I don't trust you, Tony, but all walls have ears and I don't want anybody knowing my plan. Not even Nick. I don't know where he stands."

"You really think I'd let S.H.I.E.L.D bug my place without my knowing?"

"No. Not without your knowing."

"Napalm, you're so devious. You know what it does to me, when you get devious."

"I know."

Oh, that look of lust.

Heavy, naked, molten lust.

Napalm burns things down.

Bruce is right.

You can't kill Logan, she'd never kill Eddie, but someday, if the wind's blowing the right way, she might burn me down, but I don't care.

"Well, if you want to bring sex into it…"

"Jesus, Tony, if you like that expensive tux, don't start talking dirty to me. You do it so well, and I ain't had it too much in the last month or so, as sick as I was." Liv warned him.

"Actually, I do value this tux, so I'm going to go change, and when I come back, you can tell me what you already know."

***

Liv knew that he wasn't just fucking around when she saw the size of the folders Tony had with him.

He started spreading documents all over the coffee table.

"That looks bad, Tony."

"Only because it is. Whatever your plan is, you have a problem. As you've pointed out, Paulie's plan is all over town. Every superhero worth his salt has heard it. Unfortunately for you, so has every supervillain. The word is out that all the big masks are away at the Summit and the Harlequin is taking a stand against this rookie, the Green Jackal, and that there's ransom, involved. Now, nobody wants to fuck with the Harlequin. But, after she leaves, and this nobody kid has all this money, what's to stop them from muscling in? He's a supervillan who just grabbed two heroes and held them over a vat of boiling acid. Who's he going to call? The police? The Justice League? Ralph Nader?"

"Shit! Fuck! I never though of that. But there isn't any fucking ransom!"

"You know that. I know that. Paulie knows that. You enemies don't. And what about Moloch? The Comedian's off in DC, and here's his partner, pulling off some big operation, all by herself. It's a chance for him to get some big time dough, and well, I don't have to tell you what he might have in mind for you to spite your partner."

"The Joker did it to Batgirl and the Comedian tried to do it to the Silk Spectre and Moloch figures he'd really show Eddie just what he thought of him if he did it to me?"

"Yes. Did he really? Your father, I mean."

"Yeah, but it was consensual."

"You have to be shitting me!"

"I'm not. I came to visit my father at Arkham one Friday and, I don't think Babs was supposed to be there for a conjugal visit, but when I walked in, they were conjugating hammer and tongs, yunno? She's got a thing for him. Don't tell anybody. Especially not Dick. That's his girlfriend."

"We really are a bunch of degenerates, aren't we?"

"Sure are."

"Oh well. So it goes. Now, the only good news is that Moloch is locked away at Arkham. But, you never know. Now, as for the rest of the motley lot, you have an ace up your sleeve. Or rather, a Joker. The members of the Presidium Council of the Society wouldn't stoop so low for a cash grab, and the rank and file don't sneeze unless they ask your father if they can. If I were you, I'd contact him and have him put the word out that this is hands off. Especially to Sabretooth."

"What's Creed got to do with it?"

"I'm afraid that when you ripped his heart out, it may have grown back, but you stole it away, forever. He has a thing for you, and if he thinks its Legs Up For Supervillains Day, he'll be there. And he's roaming free right now."

Tony could tell that the wheels in Liv's mind were spinning.

"Should I handle him the smart way, or the fun way, do you think?"

"I know I'll regret asking this, but what would the difference be?"

"Well, the fun way would be a little of the old ultraviolence. The smart way would be when I talk to the Old Man I should ask him to inform Magneto to keep a tight leash on Creed this weekend."

"Well, Liv, considering you ripped the man's heart out the last time, I think any further violence would just be anti-climactic. I'd go with the smart way."

"Probably. I got enough on my plate, and now I have to arrange backup for Friday in case anything goes wrong. But Dick's in this with me and so is Rorschach, Eddie has him shadowing me, so I think I can handle that."

"What do you mean, shadowing you?"

"I mean shadowing me. Why do you think the window's half open?"

Tony went over to his window, and opened it up a little more, and there was Rorschach, standing on the ledge.

"Did you get all that?" he asked.

"Affirmative."

"I'm going to close the window and draw the drapes now. You might want to go and wait in the lobby. Tell the doorman Mr. Stark said it was alright. Or else, you'll be out there all night. Understand?"

The patterns on Rorschach's mask altered, almost imperceptibly.

"I'll wait till the lights are off." He said.

"Fine."

Tony shut the window and drew the drapes.

"He's an odd duck, isn't he?"

"Not when you get used to him. What was all that about?"

"Are we finished with business?"

"Yeah. I think so."

Tony pushed the coffee table forward, and actually knelt down on the floor in front of Liv.

"Napalm, I won't take no for an answer. You're wasting your life and your big, beautiful brain working for the feds and your talents listening to Clark talk about Mom, Apple Pie and Ozzie and Harriet at Justice League meetings. You have to join the Avengers, give up that shitty government job and come work for me. Or at least just come to work for me. Look at me, I'm on my knees. I'm begging you."

Before Liv could reply, Tony deftly unzipped her jeans, and pulled them and her boxers out from under her, and lifted her dirty-sneakered foot out of one pants-leg.

"This isn't fair!" Liv yelped.

Tony gently nudged her knees apart.

"I never negotiate fairly. That's why I'm so successful…I'll…mmm…give you a raise…your own office…"

"…don't…need…ooh!...money."

"…you can share my office…"

"…Tony…"

"….and every day…don't pull my hair…that's a good girl…I'll have you for lunch…"

***

They dozed, briefly and when Liv woke up she realised that she had actually fallen asleep with her head on Tony's thigh.

And he was out like a light with his arm around her waist and his head on her belly, pointed in the other direction.

She stirred back to consciousness and righted herself.

Liv picked up the folder, again.

"Wake up, Tony. We gotta finish working on this so we can get to bed."

"I'm not that tired."

"Neither am I. That's why I'm in a hurry to get to bed."

Liv read the neatly typed words, and then she read them over again.

"No wonder Eddie wants me to put the fear of God into Paulie. It's a great plan, if you're a mad scientist or a comic-book character or a villain from an old Republic serial, but in real life?"

"I like the dry ice and hot water for sulphuric acid. It really is a nice touch. It would fool most people who didn't know shit about chemistry and its shows that Paulie really does have something of a brain."

"But that's where his slip is showing. It's a real relief, now, I know for sure Paulie's no villain. He's making sure nobody gets hurt."

Liv put the folder down.

"Maybe I'll be able to sleep at night, now."

"What were you going to do if he was bona fide?"

Liv put her forefinger and thumb to Tony's temple and mimed pulling the trigger.

That chilled the atmosphere in the room a little, something Liv didn't want.

"I'm not so ruthless, Tony. I was going to give him what he wanted before I sent him on his way." She said.

"You're so bad, Napalm. I love it. Let's go to bed."

"Where is it?"

Liv shrieked as Tony picked her up and slung her over his shoulder.

He smacked her on the ass.

"This way. You know, I just got this book from China, it has some very interesting positions in it that I never even thought of. What do you think?" He said.

"I think as long as I know you, I'll never have to see a chiropractor, again."

**Thursday**

**II: Paul **

In his own quirky, Crazy Paulie Blake sort of way, Paul was really getting his supervillain shit together.

To the outside observer in Bensonhurst, a month in Arkham hadn't done much in the way of reforming Crazy Paulie. You still found him slouching around the streets with his oddball buddy, Skinny Donazio, who had the general appearance of a degenerate Led Zeppelin roadie, and sometimes with Rosie Juarez, who was nuttier than both of them, and sometimes all three of them together, looking like a couple of degenerate Led Zeppelin roadies and a sleazy groupie.

Not to mention that crazy Napalm Napier, Jesus H. Christ.

At Grossmann's, where the attendance was lighter because of the summit, those masks who didn't attend, or were retired noted his return, and the progress of his face towards normality, and idly speculated as to where the kid had gone and who had rearranged his face.

Benny refused to have any part in it.

He knew better.

What the neighbourhood, and most of the masks who went to Grossmann's to eat didn't know was that it was all part of Paul's plan to appear to launch himself as a supervillain, with Skinny as his Henchman and Rosie as his lovely assistant.

Paul had turned the envelope full of money over to his Uncle Eddie, but he did manage to get permission to use some of his supervillian seed money to buy his friend Skinny back from the Gambinos.

They wouldn't meet with Paulie, but they would sit down with Napalm, on account of, in the old days, when her father was still Crazy Jack Napier, the chieftain of the Irish rackets, he used to work with the Italians.

They gave Skinny up to Napalm as a favour to Crazy Jack, and no money changed hands, so that left the Green Jackal with enough money left over to pickup the costumes he'd had made made for Rosie and Skinny, too.

Benny really liked the costumes.

He said he was in if they switched to the other side of the cape.

And a little bit left over to get the utilities turned on at the warehouse, which turned out to come with a very posh and fully furnished penthouse/loft.

Paul was kind of hoping he could at least keep the warehouse after the deal was done.

The costumes were everything he had expected.

He had a green suit that was moderately armoured, and over it a belt which attached on the green garment that looked like a modified pharoah's skirt.

Around his neck was an Egyptian collar, and he wore Egyptian wrist and armbands, all of which contained various gadgets.

On his head was a hood and mask modelled after the head of the Jackal God, Anubis.

No cape.

Skinny's costume was about the same, but made out to look more like an Egyptian general, and no Anubis head.

Rosie wanted something that was little more than a bikini, but Paul insisted she just have a more feminine version if Skinny's costume.

This supervillain shit was pretty serious, and she looked plenty sexy in the short skirt and boots and tights, anyway.

Dressed in their costumes, the three of them met up in the penthouse of the warehouse to go over the checklist Paul had made.

Sidekick with complementary costume?

Check.

Lovely assistant in sexy costume?

Check.

Sinister hideout?

Check.

Evil and dastardly supervillainous plan to lure the Harlequin into his clutches?

Check.

Now, all he had to do was meet up with the masks Liv had set him up with to be the decoys, and play it as the kind of schmuck that Uncle Eddie obviously took him for.

Paulie didn't blame him for it.

Ever since he failed out of school he'd been acting like a Grade A Number One Schmuck, a real asshole.

Well, not for long.

Paulie was ready to prove to everybody that he was goddamn well Mick the Merciless grandson and the Comedian's nephew.

In spades.

**III: Hollis**

Hollis Mason was a regular at Grossman's; it wasn't too far from his shop and it was open at all hours.

He ate there by himself often, and sometimes with Dan, and on quite a few occasions they noticed the striking resemblance between one of Benny Grossman's gang, and a certain mask of their acquaintance.

You couldn't miss Crazy Paulie. He was big, loud and cocky, and when he wore his mountain man beard he looked like a hippie freaky version of Rasputin.

On the other hand, right down to the way he stood and the way he moved, the kid was a perfect replica of a young Eddie Blake.

The resemblance was remarkable, but Paulie was the Comedian's sister's son, and she looked a lot like him, too.

More remarkable was that even though Eddie Blake was like a second father to the boy, he hadn't grown up to be an amoral psychopath.

That was the thing that nagged at Hollis Mason about Eddie Blake. He was a horrible, brutal man, in some ways every bit as horrible and brutal as his monster father who died trying to escape from Death Row. But his brothers and sisters who he raised insisted they never saw that side of him. Sally forgave him and had a child with him, Liv's life had improved a hundred percent since she started working with him, and millions of Americans on either side of the political spectrum called him a hero.

And this young man, who looked so like the Comedian, was like him in almost every way, but yet, so unlike him. He had the same casual air of cockiness about him, putting his feet on the table, chain-smoking and cursing and vowing that he would never cut his hair and sellout and that anything was better than wages. But there was no malice behind the boy's bravado. He was an eccentric lad, but you could tell he was a good kid.

Unlike his Uncle Eddie.

He was actually a little worried when the boy disappeared for a little over a month, and reappeared with an unsteady gait, stitched and bandaged and wearing the signs of a serious beating on his face.

The lad's personality was un-changed, but there seemed to be something bothering him.

Perhaps something had happened to him.

Something terrible.

Something that Hollis bet had to do with him seeing the side of his beloved Uncle Eddie that the Comedian had tried to keep from him, all these years.

The former Night Owl was sitting alone at Grossmann's when "Crazy Paulie" came in.

The bandages were off his face but even with the stitches out, with the long beard and goatee gone, wearing just his moustache, the boy look even more like Eddie Blake.

"Mr. Mason, can I sit with you for a minute?"

Hollis wasn't surprised.

He often sat and talked with Paulie, but the boy had been avoiding him since he returned from wherever he had been to get his beating.

"Is this about what's happened to you in the past few months, Paulie?"

"Yeah. I need your help. Your, uh, professional help. And not with my Beetle."

"Well, then we'd better go talk at the shop."

Paulie was pretty quiet along the way, and he just sat on Hollis' couch, looking at his walls.

"How about a beer, Paulie."

"Thanks. After last night and today, I need a drink."

That seemed to loosen him up a little.

"Did Eddie do that to your face?"

"Yeah. He didn't know it was me at the time. He thought he was beating up somebody else."

"Like who?"

"It's…complicated. Look, I'm in a lot of trouble, Mr. Mason. I know you don't think very well of my Uncle Eddie, but he's been real good to me and my mom and my Aunt Aggie and our whole family, and I did something bad to him, bad to you, bad to the memory of the Minutemen, just bad in general. I need help getting out of it, and you the only person I can think of who can help me. And Mr. Gardner, too, if you know where we can find him."

"I'll give him a call."

Hollis Mason hurried to his phone.

"Nelly? It's Hollis. No, the car's not ready for your retirement, yet. Before you retire, our services are needed one more time. I'm here with Paul Blake, and there's something he wants to get off his chest, and I think him and that son-of-a-bitch Eddie need our help one more time. "

***

Eddie Blake's nephew was so well-schooled in the fine art of keeping his mouth shut that it took more than just a few beers for him to talk even when he knew he had to.

Over quite a few beers, Paul laid out his tale of woe to the two retired Minutemen.

"I'm not too sure why I did it. I had this crazy idea that fate would show me her cards and tell me whether I was going to be a hero or a villain. Good idea in theory. Lousy idea in practise. I suppose I figured, fuck it, everybody thinks I'm a freak anyway, even now, in this crazy world where everybody's a freak. That's something I just can't stand, yunno? Fake freaks. They aren't like the real ones, they always let you down. But, what I was saying was, everybody already thinks I'm a freak, so I might as well get someplace with it. Except I wasn't real villainous. Or all that heroic. All I did was run around in my costume and go to Times Square and ball my crazy Old Lady in her peep show booth. I got mad when she opened the window for business while I was right in the middle of things, and I got madder when she said I should put the costume on and do porno. I wanted to show her I was a real villain, so I took the knife out of her purse and I went running out into the street and I just held up the first place I walked into. A drugstore. Now if the first thing I saw would have been an old lady getting mugged, I would have used the knife to chase the muggers away. By such slender threads our destinies hang. Can I have another beer?"

Hollis Mason opened another bottle of Coors.

The kid was so busy talking, he hardly realised how drunk he was getting.

"Thanks, Mr. Mason. So the guy behind the counter presses this button, and as I'm on my way out I run into something as big as me. I looked him right in the eye and I recognised my Uncle Eddie. It took me a few seconds to realise that my Uncle Eddie was the Comedian and the Comedian was my Uncle Eddie, and then I figured, fuck, I really screwed the pooch, so I started running. And the Harlequin came after me. I ducked around the back of the porno shop, but she found me and she just smacked me all around the alley. I swear I didn't even know what happened with Rosie's rusty old knife; she wasn't acting like she had a knife in her. So she had me, and I thought she was gonna knock me out cold and she tore the mask off my face and I'll never forget the look she gave me. Like a goddamn wild animal. Her eyes had this funny light in them like she was somewhere between killing me and tearing my tights off and I wasn't sure which one she was going for, so I rolled her over, just so I could get away and then she put her legs around me, and she started taunting me to do it to her. Jesus, I wish I did. I was too scared, I thought she was gonna kill me, but I wish I had it to do over again. At the time, fucking was the furthest thing from my mind, but that was one of the few times fucking was one of the furthest things from my mind. I know Naplam and Uncle Eddie told me the Harlequin wanst nothing to do with me, but I can't help it, I'm so hot for her. Man, it felt good havin' her legs around me, she had good, strong, soft thighs. I think about it all the time. Sometimes even when I'm with Rosie, I think about her. I can sit there and jerk off all day, thinking about her, and no matter how tired I am, if I think about her s'more, it's hard again. I'd walk on my lips through raw sewage to get ten minutes alone with that woman. She's like a force of nature."

Paul was also too drunk to realise how badly he had embarrassed himself, and the two retired superheroes kept a straight face.

"I guess she knocked me out, because when I came to she was dragging me down the street. When I came to I was in a straitjacket at Bellevue. They kept me there for a few days, and made me take a lot of tests. I ended up getting sentenced to six months in Arkham, and I decided to do my time quietly, get out, try to forget about the Harlequin and maybe go back to school. Try to become a mask in my own right, get some hero to show me the ropes. But while I was in, some of the other villains talked me into some crazy shit, and I ended up coming out to a costume and money and a lair and Uncle Eddie. He sprang me early so that I could get a plot together for the Harlequin to foil, and he wasn't too happy when I came clean and told him it was me, but we're square now. So, pretty much all I need you guys to do is show up at the warehouse, get on this lift chair that's above a tank of dry ice and bathwater that's supposed to be sulphuric acid and pretend to be in peril while the Harlequin rescues you. And if God is good to me, she'll like my new costume and maybe she'll get horny for me again. Jesus, I am really drunk. I don't think I can make it back to the Subway."

Paul finished his story, finished his beer, burped and sat back in his chair.

"That's alright, son. I'll drive you home." Hollis volunteered.

"So, you want us to be kidnapped superheroes in peril, and presumably the Harlequin will come to rescue us, and when she does, she single-handedly foils you, and the way the Comedian sees it, that gives her the extra vote of confidence to, well, graduate from superhero college?" Captain Metropolis asked.

"Yeah. I guess. Then I might have to hang up my tights. And that's what scares me. I put my whole life into masks. Knowin' everything about them. And when I put a costume on, myself, and became the Green Jackal, even though I was just a half-assed supervillain, I felt somethin' crazy. I felt like I finally figured out what I was supposed to be doin' with my life and that was wearin' a mask. Just like my uncle is the Comedian, I am the Green Jackal. Except I don't wanna be a villain, I know that now. I'm in way over my head, here. In the past 24 hours I had my best friend put a gun to my head because she thought she was going to have to take me out for betraying my uncle, and I got into a gunfight with some wiseguys and got shot getting my, uh, henchman away from them. I guess I got in at the dirty end of the pool, and I want out of it. I gotta start from the beginning, but if I don't make this shot, I'm done. With blood on my hands. For nothing." Paul replied.

"Son, if you want, to be a hero that badly, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be. But, as for this crazy idea of Eddie's, I don't like it. First of all, the whole idea of staging a final exam for a masked hero is ridiculous. I know the Harlequin, personally, and I hate to admit it, but Eddie Blake has been a positive influence on her. I think she can "graduate" all on her own without this charade. Second, you know yourself that she plays for keeps. And as for being in at the dirty end of the mask game, I'm sorry to say it, but you got a little taste of what the worst of our profession can be. You are in over your head, son. You see you can get seriously hurt." Hollis warned him.

"I got no choice. For better or worse, I am the Green Jackal."

Hollis Mason felt sorry for the boy. For one he knew that everything the lad had been through was all staged, and when he found out that Liv Napier, his uncle's girlfriend and one of his best friends, who had staged it, and the Harlequin were one in the same, it was only going to get worse for him.

"You do realise we're going to have to contact the Comedian, and make sure all of this is on the up and up?"

Paul nodded.

"Nelly?" Hollis asked.

"Just as long as our hands aren't actually tied. If it gets too rough or something goes wrong or it looks like the Harlequin is actually going to kill you, Hollis and I will put a stop to it."

"You will? Really? Thanks. Thanks a lot. I gotta go home. I don't feel so good."

Paul stood up, and the room began to go around and around.

"Oh man, I had too much to drink." He said, and passed out.

Captain Metropolis caught him.

"Do you know where he lives?"

"I know where the Comedian's penthouse is. I'll take him there. Do you think this boy has what it takes, Nelly?"

"They're throwing him in at the deep end to see if he floats. He hasn't sunk yet, but I think the kid's on his way down."

***

"What?"

Hollis Mason looked at his phone.

How little things change, even after decades.

"You still haven't learned how to say "hello", huh, Eddie?"

"Mason? What the fuck are you calling me for? You wanna write a sequel that alleges that I fucked my own daughter, or the family dog, or something like that? Look, I got a lot of shit going on right now. I'm not interested, whatever you want."

"I got a visit from your partner today. She's been gaslighting the hell out of your nephew, who I also met with today. He told me a big story about his secret identity, and some screwy Flash Gordon plan that he's cooked up that he wants me and Nelly in on."

The Comedian cursed under his breath.

"He's on the level. Just go along with his crazy fuckin' scheme and don't let my partner kill him."

"For what it's worth, Eddie, it's not your fault. You know how these kids their age are. They're all crazy."

"You know, Hollis, sometimes I wish I woulda stayed a fuckin' construction worker."

"Probably about as often as I wish I was just a retired cop."

**Prelude: Conspirators**

That evening, around midnight, Paulie and Napalm met at Grossmann's, as they often did.

And she offered to give him a ride home, as she often did.

But this was not their usual meeting.

"Can we talk, here?"

"In my car? Fuck yeah! How did the meeting go?"

"I played dumb. Hollis and Nelly bought it. I hate to pull the wool over their eyes, too, but, I guess we gotta do what we gotta do. Didja set everthing up at the warehouse?"

"Yeah. You got your lines memorised?"

"Perfectly. And the chest piece fits perfectly, too."

"Good. Don't worry about it, Paulie. This time, tomorrow, it'll all be over, and we'll be laughin' while they're cryin'. Joke's on them." Liv reminded him.

"Yeah. Joke's on them." Paulie agreed.

"Good. Now let's go rehearse this thing."


	7. Paint It, Black

_**Disclaimer: I make no money from this enterprise and I own none of these characters, except the ones I have created.**_

**VII: Paint It, Black**

**Friday**

**I: Eddie**

The last thing the Comedian wanted to hear at eight in the morning was his phone ringing.

He and Wolverine had skipped whatever was on the program for the evening and gone out on the town, incognito.

Just two ex-dogfaces out on a tear.

They started drinking around four, and Eddie didn't have very clear memories of what had happened after about eight; he had vague memories of picking up a couple of broads in some dive or the other and getting into a fight with some punk kid who thought he'd hustle Eddie Blake and Lucky Jim at pool.

The whole place had gone up; it was a pretty good fight and those broads he sort of remembered, they left with the winners.

After that it was all a blur; something to do with a truck, an 18 wheeler; he remembered having one of the broads in his lap and driving the truck, and then a cop who he showed his S.H.I.E.L.D. ID card to, and he and Logan woke up at six in the morning at a Soldier's Mission downtown with blood on their clothes that wasn't theirs and some serious hangovers.

Then the hotel dick didn't recognise them, but Logan did a little renovating in the lobby with his claws, and Eddie had only been asleep about an hour before the phone woke him up.

"What the fuck do you want!" he barked.

"Sounds like somebody's got a bitch of a hangover. Hiya, Eddie."

"Jesus Christ, kid! I ain't heard shit from youse all week, and now ya gotta call me at eight in the fuckin' morning? What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Hey, I got work to do today, don't I? I been bustin' my ass all week, not lyin' on it drunk havin' some fan of mine give me head while I'm havin' a toke. I just wanted to tell ya, everything's going according to my plan."

"Which is?"

"Geez, Eddie, if I toleja that, I'd hafta killya."

Then she laughed, uproariously.

Not a good sign.

Kid was up to something.

"Then why the fuck did you call me? You're up to something, kid. I know you. You are fuckin' up to somethin'!"

"Yeah, I'm up to somethin'. I'm finishin' up this fuckin' shitheel, dumb-ass assignment you gave me, that's what. Then, I'm gonna go have me a good time. I'm gonna get drunk, pick up a coupla mask-fans at Grossmann's I never met before an' make me a nice sandwich. So, I'll seeya Sunday, alright?"

"Yeah. Sure, kid. I ain't bitin.'"

"Hey, Eddie?"

"What?"

"Ahhh, never mind. I'll tellya Sunday. Bye."

The line wend dead.

Eddie looked into the phone.

"She's up to somethin', alright. Ahhh, fuck it. I fuckin' brought it on myself. Joke's on me. " He said.

The Comedian hung up, rolled over, and went to sleep.

***

That afternoon, he and Logan were back in the dive they had discovered the night before. He knew he could trust the kid. She was just as paranoid and devious as Crazy Jack, and every bit as paranoid and methodical as the Bat. The kid probably had a contingency plan for her contingency plan.

Foolproof.

Everything had been carefully arranged.

The fix was in.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Still, the Comedian didn't like it.

Nor did Wolverine.

Logan had volunteered his claws and his expertise should anything go wrong, and he and the Comedian were on pins and needles, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dressed in their costumes, they sat at a dimly lit corner table in the back, both of them on the same side of the table with their backs to the wall, a pitcher of beer on its second refill and a half-empty bottle of Jack in front of them, along with a small two-way radio tuned into the Superhero Defence Network.

They were getting deep in their cups and the conversation, having turned to women and love and loss, was getting serious.

"Redheads are like that, Logan. They'll rip out your motherfuckin' heart and stomp all over it."

"At least you got a good one, didn't you, Eddie?"

"Yeah. I mean, until the day I piss her off enough that she literally rips my fuckin' beatin' heart right outta my chest and stomps it as I'm dying. Which may be comin' sooner than I think. You know, Logan, Bruce just gave that kid to me. They all did. Assholes. Not Bruce. He knew she was an okay kid, she just needed somebody to help her in a way he couldn't. But the rest of 'em, they took that kid and they threw her away. She's a drunk, she's a killer, she's a fuckin' crazy little Mick. All she wants to do is drink and fuck and fight, get rid of her. Give her to Eddie. He's an asshole. Fuck her. They threw her away like so much trash. Motherfuckers."

He had a black look on his face as he spoke.

"Yeah, they did. You know how I found her. I try to make it a funny story, for Bruce's sake, but it wasn't too fuckin' funny at the beginning. The Bat, he never gave up on her, though. How'd you do it, Eddie? I thought she was a good kid, a smart kid, and we had a good time, but when she drove out of my life, I almost got down on my knees and kissed the goddamn sidewalk outside the Institute."

Eddie Blake looked into his glass.

He slugged down his beer and wiped off his mouth.

"I love her. Pretty much since the first time I ever saw her pick a man up by his neck and his nuts and throw him. Joke's on me," he said to the glass.

Wolverine almost fell off his chair.

"You what?"

"What the fuck's wrong with that? I'm not allowed? What, you wanna fight over it? I'm not afraid of you, Logan! Claws or no claws. Ya had 'em in me before and I'm still here. Ya wanna go? Let's go. I ain't shot ya for years!"

"Whoa, there, Eddie! I didn't mean it in a bad way. I mean, I knew that. Everybody knows that. I'm just fuckin' surprised you said it."

"It's true. Why not say it? "

"Yeah, well I love Jeannie, too. Did me a lot of good. Her, too. A few women loved me. It killed most of 'em. I worry about Mel, ya know?"

"I still love Sally. Always will. Did her a lot of good, too. With Liv, it was different. She needed me. Me. Lousy, rotten, bad old Eddie Blake, the rottenest son-of-a-bitch motherfucker on God's green Earth. Killed his own father and a million other shitheels just like him. Evervbody's glad the shitheels are gone, but they sure love to hate me for killing 'em. But nobody else could get to her but me. 'Cos nobody could see her for what she is, and still love her. Just me. Joke's on her."

The bartender brought Eddie another Guinness.

"She love you?"

"She jumped out of a fucking airship fifty feet above the ground into a suicide riot with no chute, broke her leg, hit the ground running, scalped a guy and shot five or ten others at point blank range to get my back and throw me a gun. And that was after she met me, once. I think she does, yeah."

Logan chuckled.

"I told her she was gonna meet the man the Devil made in Hell just for her. And I was thinkin' about you when I said it. You tell her?"

"Not in so many words."

"You better tell her in just three. Women you love have the nasty habit of getting killed in this game. And you may be tough, Eddie, but you ain't immortal. She almost bought it after she fell on some amateur's knife and got it shoved into her deeper in a bar fight."

"She came ta me, you know. She thought that was it, she was bleedin' ta death and she came ta me. I thought she was gonna die on me. I woulda found every one of those motherfuckers, I woulda burned that bar to the ground, they woulda died like nobody ever died before."

"I know all about that. It doesn't help."

"She'd do the same for me."

Logan laughed.

"If somebody killed you, and Liv knew the name of the town where you died, she'd go in there like the goddamn Jews in the goddamn Bible. She'd kill every living thing from babies and old ladies to insects, burn the town down and sew the ashes with salt so nothing would live there for a hundred years."

"You gotta call that love, my friend."

"Eddie, I'd be afraid to have Liv love me. It's fuckin' scary enough there's blood between us."

"That's because the Devil didn't forge your ass in the fires of Hell. And when I say the Devil I mean Good Lookin' Mickey Blake, and our hovel in East New York was Hell, alright. At least it was for me."

"How bad was it, Eddie? Ya never really told me."

"I killed the motherfucker, didn't I? Me and my sister Edie. We kept right on killin' the motherfucker, too, even after he was dead. It was payback. He killed us, first. When we were just little kids."

The Comedian's face twisted up, and he stopped talking.

"Not both of you. You own fuckin' father? Jesus H. Christ!"

"Oh yeah. The Old Man, he got some habits in prison that I'd rather he hadn't brought home."

Eddie laughed at his own joke.

Logan didn't say anything for awhile.

"Yeah, when they wanna torture you, that's where they start. I wish I could forget."

"At least it wasn't your father."

"Nope. Just my brother. At least that's who Sabretooth says he is. But I remember my Pa. He looked like me. Nothin' like Victor. So, how the fuck should I know?"

"Someday you'll find a way to kill him. And everybody who knows what he did to ya. Then you'll feel a whole hell of a lot better."

The two old soldiers sat there with the memories they would rather not have had.

"Hey, Eddie?"

"What?"

"You got a bad feeling about this? I got a real bad feeling about this."

"Me too. And I think the kid is up to something. She calls me up this morning at eight, just to fuck with me. Tellin' me how she's gonna fuck every long-haired punk in town with her picture on his wall come Saturday night. She did it just to make me mad. She's gonna pull somethin', somethin' good an' dirty to get me back."

"Get you back for what?"

Eddie filled his beer glass, again.

"All this shit."

"Yeah, well, it's probably just us bein' paranoid. I mean, when Napalm plans something, it goes down the way she's planned it."

"Right. It's foolproof. I know exactly what Paulie's gonna do, and when he's gonna do it and there's gonna be a coupla masks there if the kid gets antsy. But there' somethin' I don't fuckin' like."

"You just gotta bad feeling."

"Yeah."

"When's it goin down?"

"Soon."

"You antsy?"

"Jumpin' outa my skin. You, Jimmy?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna go take a piss, before the whole shithouse goes up in flames."

They had another drink or two, and then, over what sounded like the chattering of heavy gunfire, the radio crackled to life.

"Rorschach to Comedian. Come in, Comedian. Rorschach to Comedian…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. What?"

"I'm on the roof of the warehouse. Lots of gunfire coming from the street. Sounds like machine guns. Picked a few in range off with rifle, but there's too many. Going to try to get a message to Nite Owl, but will hold my post."

"Aw shit! Where's the Harlequin?"

"Arranging secondary contingency plan."

"And that is?"

"Not sure. Wasn't told. Just told to hold my post."

"What the fuck is going on?"

"Not sure. Moloch broke out of Arkham. Might have something to do with it. Heavily armed goons all over the docks. Like a war zone."

"You stay there. Hold down the fort. I'll be comin' with the cavalry. Over and out."

"Roger. Over and out."

The Comedian swore into the radio as he and Wolverine made tracks for the street.

"That fuck Jacobi, I know what he's up to! The kid had Crazy Jack put the word out ta stay out of this, and Moloch, he's startin' a gang war. Makin' a move on the Joker, ta challenge his authority. And there's goddamn Paulie right in the middle of it. Don't fuckin' tell me youse told me so, Jimmy. Don't fuckin' tell me!"

"I won't." Logan promised.

"Maybe you won't, soldier, but I will. You and Bruce."

The Comedian and Wolverine turned around.

"Steve? Where did you come from?" Wolverine asked.

"I've been shadowing you dogfaces all night. Call me crazy, but I had a feeling this was going to go FUBAR. I've got a chopper on the roof and we're cleared from S.H.I.E.L.D to do whatever we have to in order to contain this situation. Nobody wants a supervillain gang war in New York. Not do we want to lose any of our fellow masks, or any innocent civilians in that warehouse. This is no longer some training exercise. I hope you two can sober up in a hell of a hurry."

**IV:Liv**

What I wanna know is why nothing is ever easy.

I had it all planned.

It was gonna be so fucking simple.

Like eating chocolate cake in a bag.

I mean we rehearsed everything, each word, each step, each motion, and now this shit.

The first hint of a fly in the ointment was when Rorschach came to my old room over Trivelino Mac's and told me that Moloch had gone over the wall at Arkham.

It made sense, with all the masks being at the Summit.

But that wasn't too upsetting to me, because I made a contingency plan.

I always make a contingency plan.

Now I didn't think Moloch was dumb enough to cross the Comedian and the Joker, both, but just in case, I put the Old Man and Harley on standby, and put my contingency plan into action.

I got the word to Dick that Paulie was going to "kidnap" him too, so I'd have somebody on the inside.

Then I'd have Rorschach on the outside, up on the roof, with a rifle.

Paulie's letter said to be there at six, so I picked up the car from Hollis' garage right after I met with the troops.

We all sat down and went over the plan one more time.

Then I met secretly with Paulie, and we went over our parts one last time.

After that, I made a few phone calls, to make sure things were in place for my secondary contingency plan.

The "just in case the whole shithouse goes up in flames" contingency plan.

I always make two contingency plans.

Then, I loaded up the car with guns and ammo and put on my bulletproof vest and the stealth version of my costume, just in case.

I know the new version of the ol' boiler suit has Kevlar in it, double layers in some places, but I had the feeling I might need the heavy artillery, and that vest I had is supposed to stop up to a .40 caliber bullet.

Then I washed and waxed the car and headed down to the docks.

The minute I saw the truck parked across in the middle of the road, I knew I was fucked.

Sure, it could have been an accident, or a delivery truck, or Mob guys with some swag, but it was all too convenient.

The car there with it looked like a cop car, and the man coming towards my car looked like a cop, sure enough, but I smelled a rat.

I been on patrol on the docks for years, and my father lives down here; I know all the cops on this beat and this guy, he wasn't one of them.

He was motioning for me to get out of the car.

So I'm fucked.

If this guy is a cop and I don't get out of the car, he'll shoot me.

If he's not a cop and I get out of the car, he'll shoot me.

So I pretended to get out like I was a schmuck and didn't know shit, but the minute my ass was out of that car I went into a roll.

I really hit the concrete hard; I knew I'd be feeling that tomorrow, but it was a good thing, because the fake cop pulled out a .357 Magnum and opened fire.

Not to mention there was some heat coming from the roofs around me.

One slug hit the pavement and the other hit me, pretty much at point-blank range, right in the chest.

I played dead, and let him get close to me.

Just in case he was a real cop who was taking payola, I took him out with a couple of shots to the knee. I crawled on my belly back to the car with my chest burning like fire, slammed the door and threw it into reverse.

I drove in reverse all the way down the street, turned around when I could and floored it in the other direction.

Holy shit.

I drove right into a goddamn ambush.

I mean I was expecting some shit, but not this kind of shit.

It was like the goddamn St. Valentine's Day Massacre.

That fucking Moloch, he had goons in cars, goons on the rooftops, goons on the sidewalk, it was like running the fucking gauntlet.

If I had been stupid enough to think, oh well, that was all, nice trick with the cop and the truck, and get out of the car anywhere near that warehouse, I would have been just as dead as Sonny fucking Corleone at the goddamn tollbooth.

It was that kind of fire.

I mean, I bulletproofed the car, but you'd need a tank to stand up to this kind of gunfire, so I ducked my head down and kept one hand on the wheel and floored it away from the docks.

When I got far enough away, I pulled the car over and thought about it.

All that firepower wasn't just for me.

Moloch was using the Old Man's decree to stay out of the Green Jackal situation to start a supervillain gang war.

He must have figured out that the Old Man had it in for him, and now he was making a big power play, and throwing a big old "fuck you" to his arch-nemesis, getting his partner involved.

Meanwhile, I was in the dark.

Tony had glimpsed the edges of the plot, but I had no idea who, if anybody, was with Moloch or what they had planned, and there was my brother and Hollis and Nelly in the middle of it, and Rorschach up on the roof.

Not to mention Paulie and Rosie and Skinny, my friends, innocent civilians.

The shithouse had definitely gone up in flames.

Good thing I had made a plan for that.

I got on the radio.

"Harlequin to Emergency Strike Team. Shithouse has gone up in flames. Repeat. Shithouse has gone up in flames. Over."

"This is Silk Spectre, Harlequin. We read you loud and clear. We're ready and waiting. Over."

"I'll be there in five minutes. Bulletproof vests on. Already took a .357 at point blank rage. No serious injury. Triage. The enemy has choppers. An' not the flying kind. And there's a whole shitload of them. Over."

"Right. Vests on. Ready and waiting. Over and out."

"Over and out."

**III: Laurie**

On Wednesday night, Laurie congratulated herself on knocking Jon out so thoroughly that he actually fell asleep.

As for her, she was so fucking angry at that son of a bitch Eddie Blake and at her mother for the endless comedy she played with him that Laurie couldn't sleep at all.

She was just about ready to go and find one or both of them and raise hell when she got an interesting phone call from Liv, describing the most intricate web of heartless double and triple crosses that she'd ever heard.

To have that shit put on you by your stepfather and your partner was even worse.

Worse yet, Crazy Paulie was involved.

Laurie didn't remember ever not knowing Liv or Paulie.

Her mother said they'd been friends since they were a year old, and she knew he was crazy, but crazy enough to put on his sister's tights and go out and try to be a supervillain in a leotard with an iron-on it and a leftover plastic mask and cape from St. Patrick's Day?

Un-fucking-believable.

If his uncle hadn't beat the unholy fuck out of him for his stupidity, Laurie would have done it. Because not only did he get himself in deep shit, ending up in Arkham, getting mixed up with real supervillains, but he got Napalm antsy.

Napalm was just about the only son-of-a-bitch paranoid enough to suspect that Paulie, who she had known since she was in a stroller, was a genuine goddamn supervillain.

Paranoid enough to think that, with him being the Comedian's nephew and her friend, that she might have to take him out, if he went bad.

Laurie had spent a few hours on the phone, earlier in the week, talking an extremely drunk Napalm out of her last misgivings about their old playground buddy Paulie.

On one hand, it was good that Liv told Paulie she was the Harlequin, and that she was helping him with his crazy plan, but, on the other hand, now he was mixed up in some crazy plot with fake kidnapped masks.

It was the kind of plan that could go very wrong in about a million different ways, all of which would involve Paulie, Rosie, and Skinny being in the middle of some truly deep shit that they were not equipped to handle.

The good thing about Liv's paranoia, though, was that it cut both ways, and in case of everything going completely wrong, she devised a Doomsday scenario.

It was vintage Napalm.

Ultraviolent, flashy, brutal, and precise.

It was the kind of plot that Jon would never involve himself in, and that her mother would go mad if she knew Laurie was even thinking about going along with.

Laurie accepted in a minute.

She had known Paulie her whole life; Paulie's mother, Edie, had babysat Laurie when she was a little girl, and it wasn't either of their faults they were related to Eddie Blake. For good or ill, the crazy bastard was her friend, and if he needed her to get out of a jam, she was going to do it.

And if a few badguys ended up in the morgue along the way, well, sometimes being a masked hero wasn't all diplomacy and bullshit.

Sometimes you had to fucking kill somebody.

That was how, on Friday night, Laurie found herself in a decommissioned WWII era Ford combat vehicle, with three heavily armed men, hoping the okay would never come.

They were all in it for the same reason she was.

The truck belonged to Paulie's brother, Patrick Blake, who had done two tours of duty under his Uncle Eddie in Vietnam.

Pat was a real nice guy; he was studying psychology in college on the GI Bill, and he wanted to be a shrink. He was a little bit loopy, but compared to his crazy brother, his crazy mother, and his completely fucking psychotic uncle, he was pretty normal.

Pat was an explosives and weapons expert, with a Purple Heart.

Riding along with them was Big Benny Grossmann, whose mother had packed him off for a year of service in the Israeli army when he was 18.

It was an eventful year and he had seen a lot of action.

Benny was a sharpshooter and an expert marksman, who had several medals for bravery.

It was definitely a family affair, as Paulie and Pat's father, Ivan Stavrogin, a journeyman junkman who occasionally worked as a garbage man and was a decorated WWII veteran of the Red Army motor corps, was behind the wheel.

They weren't doing it for Truth, Justice, and the American Way. They were in this to save their friends and their family; and because of that, it took on a greater sense of immediacy.

It was easy to think about values and standards and tread the high moral ground when you were fighting one group of strangers to protect another group of strangers, but when it was your own friends and family who were involved, you wanted to shoot first and talk later.

Fortunately, that was exactly the kind of operation Napalm had in mind.

They all sat in the truck, waiting for six to come and the radio to remain silent.

"Pat, I know this is a helluva time to mention it, but I don't have any formal firearms training. I've fired a pistol, a couple of times, but I don't know anything about machine guns."

"There's not much to know. You don't have to be accurate when you've got that kind of firepower. You just point and shoot." Pat told her.

Unfortunately for all of them, especially Paulie and company, Liv's communication came in at 4:30, and she arrived not long after it.

Loaded for bear with a big bullet hole in her combat vest already.

Shooting Napalm only made her angry.

"Okay, gang, this is some serious shit we got here. Remember all of the worst-case scenarios we discussed? This is worse than all of them. We got a full scale supervillain gang war going on, and Paulie, and some of the Silk Spectre's and my colleagues are sitting ducks in the middle of it. And they already shot me. We got goons all over the waterfront. Goons in cars, goons on rooftops, goons on the street, and they've got some serious fucking weaponry."

"Do you have a plan?" Benny asked.

"Yeah. Total fucking war. We're gonna hit 'em hard, we're gonna hit 'em fast, and we're gonna give no quarter and show no mercy. They didn't strafe my car with machine gins and have a phony cop shoot me in the chest with a .357 Magnum because they're fucking around. The way I see it, Moloch knows that the Joker isn't too fond of him anymore, and that he's trying to find an excuse to punch his ticket. Now, with pretty much all the masks in New York in DC, and the Joker putting the word out that Greenie's his man and stay out of his action, Moloch figures this is a great opportunity for him to make his move. Those goons aren't out there for this bullshit comedy Paulie and I are supposed to play out. Sure, we're gonna be killed to show the Joker what Molly thinks of him; and he might have his goons bump off Hollis and Nelly for spite, but what this is really about is taking the docks. The docks, where the Joker has his HQ and, coincidentally, where the Comedian, his arch-nemesis, had been on patrol since 1938. And who's the Comedian's partner? The Harlequin. It all ties up in a nice package with a bow for Moloch, don't it? And, as the 7th Cavalry ain't comin' to save the day, this is up to us. As the Comedian's partner, I gotta show Moloch that I don't take too kindly to him tryin' to take the docks; that it ain't a case of while the cat's away, the mice will play. You too, Laurie. Half the reason he's pulling this is Molly has us pegged for the weak links, just a couple of chicks. We gotta show him that we're better men than he is. That said, if anybody in this van can't get down with some real and true ruthless ultraviolence, there's the door."

Nobody moved.

Ivan actually laughed.

"My father died in Czar's war, my mother in Revolution, I grew up under piece of shit Stalin, five years in gulag, five years in Red Army fighting Nazis. You think a few shitheels with guns is going to keep me from saving my stupid crazy son?"

"He's my stupid crazy friend, Ivan. I'm with you. I'm nobody's Twinkie. Sometimes you gotta just say, fuck it, kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out." Laurie said.

"Hey, you fuck with my brother, and my uncle, and my friends, you've fucked with me. And a Blake is nobody in this city you wanna fuck with. I'm with Dad. Let's go." Patrick announced.

"Paulie and Skinny and Rosie are my best friends in the world. Like Paulie says, Live Freaky, Die Freaky, baby." Benny decided.

"That's right, Benny. You got it now. Live Freaky, Die Freaky, baby. When you fuck with the freaks, you are in a world of shit. Now, here's my plan. Pat, I'm gonna need a really big shoe here, where we have a lot of smoke, a lot of fire, but not a lot of real damage. At least not structural damage. I want goons blown to hell and abandoned buildings in flames, but we can't go blowing up warehouses or we'll have the cops, the mob and the Better Business Bureau all over us. Benny, I need you to put the fear of God into 'em. If there's two of 'em up on a roof, pick one off a roof, but let the other live. That kind of shit. And Ivan, you drive. And if you gotta drive over 'em, drive over 'em. Now, by this time, with the streets in flames and shit blowin' up and those goons not knowing who's picking them off, its' gonna create some serious chaos. We'll do a couple passes with the choppers, and then, you guys cover us while me and the Silk Spectre go in there. After we solve the goon problem, we'll come back here and get the car. Okay so far?"

Nods all around.

"Now, we'll creep up on the warehouse, and secure the perimeter. But this time, we go in real quiet. I don't want Moloch to know I'm comin' until I batter the doors down with the car."

"Then what?" Patrick asked.

Liv didn't know what to say.

Moloch was Eddie's arch-nemesis.

"Fuck it. I can take him."

"That's not gonna work with Moloch, kid. Although, I gotta say, I like the rest of your plan. Open up, Pat. C.O's are here."

The familiar voice came from outside, and before Liv and Laurie could tell him not to, Pat opened up the back of the truck.

Benny couldn't believe his eyes.

The Comedian, Wolverine, and Captain America.

"You got a better idea, boss?" Liv asked the Comedian.

"Yeah. I do. Jacobi's a punk and a coward, but he ain't stupid. You get outta that car to fight him man to man, he'll pull a gun out of his ass and give you two in the head. You better pin his ass to the wall, and you better have the chopper. But I think you got it right, what he's up to. He thinks my partner's just some broad, some Twinkie that the papers have been lyin' about, and that he can rough her up and fuck her to spite me. And while he's at it, he figures he can make his stand against Crazy Jack. Sunnuvabitch musta really gone crazy, but, still, we can't have a superhero gang war on the docks. The whole city'll be paralysed. Gotta nip this thing on the bud. Now, kid, what you gotta do is get the drop on the prick, and them beat the cocksucker, mercilessly. Lay down the law for him. I say she gets out, and shows him she ain't no fuckin' Twinkie. You start knocking his ass around, he turns to shit. Then, when you get him on the ropes, I'll come out and finish the job. Moloch's problem is it's been too long since I really beat the shit out of him. You gotta put the fear of God into that cocksucker, or else he'll do just about anything. And we better get there, fast. Paulie can play it off for awhile, but if Moloch gets wise to him, everybody in that joint is dead. You got anybody ridin shotgun, Ivan?"

"No, no, Eddie. You drive. I ride shotgun. Let me use yours, huh?"

"Sure. Just like the old days, huh?"

The three superheroes got in the truck.

"I'm taking over this operation, if you don't mind, Napalm." Cap told her.

"You're the boss, Cap."

"Right. Move out, Comedian. Now, we're pretty much going to go with Harlequin's plan, except for the crazy part where she and Silk Spectre leave this vehicle before the threat is contained. That's why we brought Wolverine. They can shoot him up, and he'll still kill ten of them and be drinking at the victory bash, tonight."

"No way! I'm not sittin' on my hands while you send Logan out to get all cut to pieces!"

"I can take it, darlin'."

"So? That don't make it right." Liv protested.

"Like you said, soldier, this isn't about what's right, this is about winning this battle. And Logan's been drawing fire and taking down the shooters since before you were born. You do your job, and you let him do his." Cap reprimanded her

"Are you gonna say it?' Benny asked Wolverine.

"Okay, Benny."

_Snikt!_

"I'm the best at what I do. But, what I do isn't very nice."

"Wow! This is the coolest fuckin' thing that ever happened to me!"

"At ease, soldier. Now, when the threat is contained, including any threat to the perimeter, we'll send Harlequin and Silk Spectre in the Wildcat, with the Comedian, as he planned."

"So we miss the good part?" Laurie insisted

"Yeah! Send me in with Logan! I'll kill 'em all!" Liv protested

"Cap, I've seen Napalm in action, and---"

Captain America gave Wolverine his best "Stand down, soldier," look, and Logan, knowing what was going to happen, anyway, stood down.

"Yeah, and I'd like to see her induction next week, not her funeral. Is that clear?"

Liv shrugged.

"We still get to make the passes with the chopper."

"It's better than sitting around all night. And Moloch might have goons in the warehouse." Laurie agreed.

"You got those incendiaries ready, Pat?" The Comedian asked.

"Yessir, Colonel!"

"Just give the order, Cap."

"Move in, Colonel."

"Wait! Wait, goddamn it! Wait for me!" a voice was yelling from outside.

"That sounds like Bear." Pat said to Laurie.

"Who the fuck is that?" Ivan asked.

"It's Boots Marcano's kid. Frankie Bear." The Comedian said.

"Oh, Frankie Bear. Figures." Ivan replied.

"Who's Frankie Bear?" Cap asked Laurie.

"Frank Marcano. He's a real trip. Frank's crazy. Stone cold nuts. And he looks it. He's got one brown eye, one blue eye and he's even hairier than than Crazy Paulie. He looks, well kind of like a bear. One of those Sicilian guys, not too tall but built like a brick wall. He used to be the bully in he park where me an' Liv and Paulie and Pat used to be set loose in, but he's evolved into a real Furry Freak Brother. Everybody in Bensonhurst thinks Frankie must have been driven crazy by his time in Vietnam, but anybody who knew the Bear all his life knows that Frank was crazy before he left, and that his time in 'Nam has actually made him a wiser, mellower man. He was with Pat and the Comedian in the war, and now he makrs pies at his father's pizza shop, but he's the Harlequin's man in the street.. He's got all these crazy weapons he smuggled outta the army, and he's sorta admitted that he'd always wanted to go out just like King Kong. This is definitely right up his street."

The Comedian already let the Bear into the cab of the truck.

"Reportin' for duty, Sarge! I got a bazooka an' a flamethrower, an' I got an M-16, a coupla grenades…"

"Siddown, you crazy fuck! Good ta seeya, Bear. Now, gimme that flamethrower." The Comedian chuckled.

"Hi, Ivan. I came to help Paulie."

"Good. Now, I fire bazooka, and you aim. Okay?"

"You got it."

Cap turned to Wolverine.

"Are you wishing you stayed in DC yet?"

"Not me, Cap."

"Why doesn't that surprise me, Jimmy? Alright, troops! Prepare to move out! Comedian! Move out!"

The Comedian floored it, and Patrick opened one of the hatches enough to throw out the first incendiary.

Benny went up into the sniper's roost, and Laurie heard the Comedian tell the Bear to start shooting.

"Fire two, Pat!"

Patrick Blake threw out the next device.

The fire from the enemy was incredibly heavy; Laurie could hear the bullets pinging off the armoured truck.

She wasn't used to fear, but the smells of smoke, sweat , blood, and gunpowder, the sight of the night lit by fire, the shouts of her fellow team members in the van; it was like war, and Laurie had never been to war.

She swallowed, hard, and fear began to crawl around in her guts like a virus.

The rest of these men had all been to war; combat was a familiar situation to them, but Laurie had never been in a real combat situation like this before.

She thought Liv hadn't either, but Liv didn't look fazed, and she seemed to know exactly what she was doing.

Has she already been dropped into some hot spots around the globe with her partner, or was the city really that bad?

"Machine gunners, to the windows!" Captain America ordered.

Laurie realised that meant her, too.

"Ports open! Fire!"

"I'll hit 'em high. You hit 'em low." Liv told her.

"How about a little chin music, ya cocksuckers!" she yelled and started firing.

"Napalm?"

"What?"

"I never shot one of these. The last time I fired a pistol I was fifteen, at a shooting range."

"What? What the fuck is the matter with your mother? Sendin' you out in the street with no gun! You see the big bolt?" the Comedian yelled from the front.

"Yes."

"Pull it back. Now, point the barrel out the port and aim for their legs. Put your feet apart, keep both hands on the weapon, and fire. Pat, keep her weapon loaded."

"Right."

"I'm not gonna be very accurate." Laurie said.

"Like I said before, you don't have to be." Pat told her.

Napalm was extremely accurate. She was shooting away like she was born with the chopper in her hand; she could shoot one handed, and pop heads like pumpkins and reload the magazine with the other hand.

Laurie found that the gun kicked like a mule; but it did most of the work for her.

"When we get outta this, kid, you make sure your friend learns how to use a goddamn sidearm! Take the wheel, Ivan. Bear, gimme that flamethrower back! Cover me."

"Yessir, Sarge!"

Laurie saw a jet of fire coming from the passenger side, and she could hear the Comedian laughing.

Liv was laughing, too.

"Slow down, Comedian! We're making the drop. Alright, Wolverine, move out"

Captain America opened one door, and Wolverine jumped out, claws at the ready.

"Cover him!" The Comedian ordered, and Benny and Pat joined Liv at the ports.

Laurie gave up her spot to Benny.

They could provide him with some cover, but Wolverine pretty much ran into a hail of bullets.

Despite that, the bodies began to pile up.

The slugs that tore into him didn't seem to faze him; he was going through the gun-toting goons like a hot knife through butter, until he took a double-barrelled shotgun blast to the midsection at close range.

Wolverine howled in pain, and fell to his knees on the pavement, and then, he crumpled over on his side.

The goons continued to shoot him.

It was horrible; Laurie could see his body jumping from the impact of the bullets.

She was about to ask Cap if anybody was going to help him, but Liv was way ahead of both of them.

"You motherfuckers! I'm comin', Logan!" Liv howled.

She did a roll, kicked the back door open, and jumped out of the truck.

By the time she was on her feet she was firing.

"Harlequin!" Cap yelled, as he pulled the door shut.

"I coulda told you she was gonna do that, Cap." Laurie told him.

There were only five goons left who weren't either dead, a whole pile of them by Wolverine's hand, or fleeing in terror.

The Harlequin had taken up a stance right in front of Wolverine, shielding him with her body and shielding herself with a hail of bullets erupting from her gun.

First she hit them low with the chopper, taking out their knees.

"Stay down, Logan! Alright you fuckers, that was for hurting my friend. And this…"

Liv opened fire again, hitting the goons high, chest and heads popping like pumpkins.

"…is for fucking with me!"

_Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat…_

"Ahahahahahahaha…."

_…rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat…_

"…hahahahahahaha…"

The street was suddenly quiet, but for the sounds of guns being thrown onto it and running feet.

The hard-bitten henchman didn't fear death, and they didn't fear fire, and they didn't fear a man they couldn't kill, but every man fears Hell, and so they feared Napalm, Hell's emissary, made of hellfire.

Quite literally, Laurie thought, seeing her wreathed in smoke, her face illuminated by fire, standing up to her ankles in blood, Hell's Angel.

The truck stopped and the Comedian got out, too, and he and Liv carried Wolverine back into the truck and laid him on one of the benches.

The Silk Spectre was jolted out of her strange reverie by the reality of Liv and the Comedian carrying a ruined, bloody Wolverine, his body twitching, inadvertently, into the back of the truck.

He was so riddled with bullets that his body looked like it had been passed through an industrial hole puncher. His costume was all in rags and tatters and there was scarcely an inch of his body that wasn't red and torn and bleeding.

The goons had paid particular attention to Wolverine's head and face to a hideous effect; Laurie could see his silvery adamantium skull showing through in places. The poor man was making a hideous gurgling noise that resulted in blood bubbling from his lips that was an approximation of breathing, as he held his hands over his belly.

That was the worst wound; the shotgun blast had blown a huge hole in his torso; Logan had his hands around the ruins of his stomach because he was trying to hold in his guts.

Laurie could see them.

Napalm had her hands over his belly, too; they were red to the wrists with the man's blood.

"Jesus, Eddie, they nearly blew him in half! Don't move, Logan, I'll holdja together."

"I can see that. Look, I got bigger hands, kid. Lemme hold him together. It's awright, Lucky Jim. You an' me both know you'll be awright."

"Don't feel so lucky." Logan burbled, wetly, through bloody lips.

"Oh Jesus, they shot him to pieces! Hang in there, soldier! Corporal Blake, do we have first aid supplies?" Captain America asked Patrick.

Meanwhile, Wolverine was bleeding all down the bench he was lying on; rivulets of blood were rolling along the metal floor of the truck towards the door.

He looked more like a piece of meat than a human being; it seemed almost obscene that he couldn't die; no-one should have to suffer being wounded like that and not die.

"Yessir. We've got got hypodermics, ainti-bacterial ointment, bandages, clamps, gauze, sterile needles, suture…Would morphine help Mr. Logan?" Pat asked.

"It won't hurt him. I'll get the vein ready." Liv said.

Laurie watched as the Comedian held the bits of Wolverine together while Captain America and Liv pulled bullets out of him, and sewed and bandaged him.

Still, Laurie couldn't believe it; he was already healing up; breathing normally, without bleeding or gurgling, and she could see his wounds closing up, some of the suture popping out, already.

"Let me have that blanket, Pat. Keep still, Logan. You'll be alright." Liv was telling him, as she covered him up.

With Wolverine on the mend, Captain America took the Harlequin to task.

"Soldier, you know damn well that whatever those men did to Wolverine, it wasn't going to kill him! You are another story! Do you mind telling me why you disobeyed a direct order and risked your life for no reason?" he barked.

"No reason? No reason! I'm standin' here lookin' like I took a bath in the man's blood, an' you're tellin' me I had no reason! I don't give a shit if he's doin' jumpin' jacks by the time we get to the warehouse! Logan's my friend, it's blood between us, and if somebody blows him away, I ain't sittin' around and listenin' to him scream an' watchin' him bleed out in the street, holdin' his own guts in with his bare hands! That's not how I was taught to be a goddamn hero! I took an oath to Logan to always be his friend, and never betray him, and I took an oath to the Justice League to always come to the aid of a fellow mask in need, even if it costs me my life. There wasn't an out clause that said, unless he's a mutant with an extreme healing factor" Liv protested.

For a minute, Cap looked shocked.

Then, Steve Rogers put his hand on Liv Napier's shoulder.

"You're a good soldier, Harlequin. That's exactly what you are, because it is war out on these streets, isn't it? A war you were drafted into when you could barely walk, a war your mentor, the Bat, is the only one of us who knows just how bad it is. And you have been out here fighting it on your own, all these years, like a crazy guerrilla warrior in some jungle hell. Well, if this is what it's like in the streets of this city, if this is what this country is coming to, then we had better put our own house in order before we go out and try to save the world. I can't look away anymore, and tell myself that somehow it will get better, that all the kids are crazy, that nothing's wrong. You're not going to be alone in this war any longer. Just like we almost lost you to this war, America's almost lost your whole generation to it. Well, we can't let that happen. America, love it or leave it, that's coward's talk. Change it or lose it, I say. And when I say it, there's a helluva lot of important people, masks and otherwise, who are damn well going to listen to me." He said.

Steve didn't feel like a bitter old man, anymore; he felt like Captain America, again.

"That's what I been tryin' to tell youse for years, Steve! I been fightin' this war in the city with the kid., on these docks by myself, all over the whole fuckin' world my whole life since I was the age the kid was when she started! Alla that shit guys our age go on about we killed alla them Nazis for nothin' cos the country's goin downhill, who's fuckin' fault is that? These goddamn kids? They ain't in charge. We are. And we been spendin' so much time pretendin' everything's fine an' puttin' a nice frame around a lousy picture that we've let the whole fuckin' shithouse go up in flames. No wonder all the stupid little bastards are runnin' wild in the streets, gettin' hooked on dope, overdosing, joinin' weird religions, marchin' up and down an' yellin. It ain't nice, it ain't pretty, and it sure as hell ain't Ma and Apple Pie, but it ain't never been that way. An' it never will be. This is fuckin' America, the land of the free, and the home of the fuckin' nuts! That's the way it's been since 1776. We gotta quit sellin' ourselves some bullshit air-conditioned Ozzie and Harriet suburban fantasy an' go in there and take this country back from these fuckin criminal rat bastards an' pushers an' pimps an' drug-runnin' scumbags. Really put these jokers through some changes. We're fuckin' superheroes. It's our fuckin' job. And if some fuckin' scumbags die, shit, goddamn Wyatt Earp and alla those guys didn't settle the fuckin' West askin' cattle rustlers and bank robbers to please disperse." The Comedian agreed.

"His heart's in the right place, Cap." Wolverine said.

Laurie looked over at him; Logan was sitting up; and he was more skin that bullet holes, already.

"Lie down, soldier! And now mine is, too. Alright, troops. We've got three fellow masks and three innocent civilians to save. We can philosophise later. Comedian, get on the radio and alert Commissioner Gordon; the city can take the docks situation from here. Let's move out."

**IV: Liv**

So, we made it to the factory around quarter of six, and we were all hunkered down in the back while Eddie and Cap checked the perimeter.

Logan wanted to go with them; all his bullet holes were shut, and his head was in one piece, but that hole in his belly wasn't quite closed, so he had to stay in the truck.

He healed up pretty fast, even for Logan; maybe it was the adrenaline from the combat situation, maybe it was that me and Cap took the bullets out of him and sewed him up, some, but I was glad to see he was on the mend.

His X-Men costume was all in shreds and bloody tatters, but good old Bear, he's like Pat, prepared for anything. He brought some extra fatigues with him in case of emergency, and as him and Logan are about the same size; they fit Logan pretty good.

Eddie and Cap came back about fifteen minutes later, by then Logan was healed up enough that he was putting Frank's borrowed fatigues on, and assuring Laurie, who was doing her best not to look horrified, that he was as good as new.

"Well? Anybody out there?" he asked.

"The only gun here is ours. Rorschach's still on the roof. He got a few of them, and the rest cut and run when they heard all hell breaking loose, and saw all the fire and smoke. We'll keep the perimeter secured; it's time for the strike team to move in." Cap told us.

The moment of truth.

To play some comedy with Paulie seemed stupid after what just went down, so I decided once I got in there to just play it straight.

Contain Moloch, get everybody out in one piece.

I wasn't too happy about Eddie going in with me; but I didn't mind Laurie, and I was sure Cap would look after Logan.

We all got in my car, and waited the longest five minutes or so of my life.

"Hey, Eddie?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"If I don't make it through this, I wantcha to know that everything's alright between you an' me. If I do, though, well, we gotta talk."

"Hey, kid, nobody on our side is dyin' on this mission, alright?" Eddie says.

"Yeah. That's what me and Mr. Personality are here for." Laurie says.

"I could do with a little less of that fuckin' smart mouth from you, Laurel Jane! Shut it! Now!"

And I have to laugh, because Eddie's using this "Don't make me get your mother" tone of voice and Laurie's so surprised, she actually belts up.

Then, it's six o'clock, and all was not well.

Time to make it well.

I jammed a tape into the tape deck and hit play, and cranked it.

With Led Zeppelin doing the _Immigrant Song_, the I hit the high beams, revved the engine, and let out one of my best Daddy's Little Girl laughs.

"Alright everybody, drop your cocks and grab your socks, HERE WE GO!"

I blasted the horn three times, dropped the car into third, and floored it.

"Helluva way to spend a Friday night," Laurie commented, bracing herself for the impact.

"Never a dull moment with the kid around, that's for sure." Eddie agreed.

**V: Paul**

On Friday morning, Paul Blake woke up in the plush bed in the vast bedroom of the posh apartment above the warehouse he temporarily occupied in a completely understandable state of abject terror and total panic.

Paul had everything planned out perfectly for his big day, but that didn't mean he wasn't any the less nervous.

Three days earlier, he had Rosie deliver the following invitation to the Harlequin.

_My Dear Harlequin,_

_I enjoyed our last meeting immensely, and I have forgiven you for rearranging my face, as I hope you have forgiven me for accidentally stabbing you. What can I say, I thought that we were supposed to be adversaries before you made your charming offer that we become friends._

_Good friends._

_Very good friends._

_I am so sorry to have disappointed you in your hour of need, but don't despair. I have arranged another opportunity for us to meet so that I may fulfil your every desire, in a much more private place._

_I invite you to return from the warehouse you were passing when you received this message in three days time so that we may consummate out affair._

_I have, however, anticipated that you may no longer be interested, in which I feel I must offer you a little incentive to meet me as scheduled. I have also made the acquaintance of a few old friends of my rival for your affections, the Comedian. If you don't arrive by 6PM for our date, I will be regretfully forced to send two of your fellow masks for a not-so refreshing dip in a rather large tank of sulphuric acid._

_I ask no money for their safe return, indeed, no ransom of any kind. All I ask is that you allow me to finish what we started._

_I remain utterly smitten with you, and I look forward to making you a very happy woman._

_Yours eternally,_

_The Green Jackal_

He consoled himself with the knowledge that it would all be over soon, and put on a bravura performance of his usual cocky bravado to Rosie and Skinny.

As the day wore on, Paul's panic lessened.

Things were going according to Napalm's and his careful plans, after all.

At four he and Rosie and Skinny got into their costumes, having stayed in the penthouse the night before.

At four-thirty, Captain Metropolis and the first Nite Owl arrived, with a special surprise guest, Robin, the Boy Wonder, all in their costumes, and ready to look imperilled.

At five, Skinny filled up the tank and the "prisoners" got up on the lift chair above the full tank. Rosie tied their hands behind their backs and their feet in easily escapable but realistic-looking knots.

At five-thirty, Skinny and he and Rosie added the dry ice.

Everything was going perfectly.

To the Harlequin, when she arrived, it would appear that the two former Minutemen and Robin, whom she was known to have worked closely with along with Batman, fellow JLA members, were suspended in lift chairs over a bubbling vat of deadly sulphuric acid, and that a switch which he would dramatically threaten to throw would cause them to be dumped into a horrible death.

Then, at quarter to six, Paulie stopped telling himself that he was worrying for no reason, and quite without his permission, his nervous system went into full tilt boogie in panic mode.

The warehouse door opened and in walked Moloch, in full costume, instead of the Harlequin, with two goons armed with machine guns.

He sent them up on the catwalk to secure the bonds of the heroes on the chair lift; now they were tied up for good and all.

Reality has a way, Paulie thought, of dick-slapping you right in the face when bad shit goes down, and it occurred to him that Moloch had come to make them all dead.

Him, Rosie, Skinny, the two nice retired superheroes, and the Boy Wonder.

With extreme prejudice, like Pat always said.

Pat.

Him and Dad and Napalm and the 7th Cavalry ought to be on their way; I just gotta keep this shit together long enough for them to get here.

Paulie's mind started going a mile a minute, and then he remembered that he was supposed to be the Green Jackal, up and coming young supervillain, hand-picked by the Joker as his new project, prospective member of the Society of Supervillains.

To whit, he had a .45 automatic that he borrowed from Pat secreted about his person.  
And he had a good idea that if he played this as the Green Jackal, loved by men, feared by women, ruthless, brutal and just a little crazy, he could get them all out of this alive.

Fuck this turkey.

Time to finish what I started in the joint.

Ace of Spades, again.

Live Freaky, Die Freaky, baby.

The evil magician looked over the setup, and Paul's henchmen, especially Rosie.

"Nice job, kid. Nice choice of victims. I like your setup, too. It's hokey and it's theatrical, but it's simple, and it works. Classic stuff. I think I saw this on an episode of the old Flash Gordon serial. Nice touch. "

Paul played it cool.

"Don't look at my girl like that! I'll burn your goddamn eyeballs out! Edgar, what the fuck are you doing here? What are these goons for? I've got fifteen minutes until the Harlequin arrives, and I've been planning this for weeks! What are you trying to do, muscle in on my action?"

Paul had never shot another living creature before, but if you were Eddie Blake's nephew, you were familiar with guns and you knew how to use them.

He pulled the gun, took aim, and shot one of the goons in the kneecap.

The man he shot fell onto the catwalk, and Moloch stopped the other from firing and motioned for him to come down.

Paulie continued his Psychotic Charismatic Supervillain Rant.

"What the fuck do you think I am, some kind of chump? All I hear out there, all night, is shit blowing up and gunfire and meanwhile I'm trying to get a little action and some cash here. Do you know how much that much goddamn corrosive acid costs? Do you have any idea the kind of careful planning I put into this? Something simple. Tasteful. Classic. Something to impress the Society and make my bones, something to prove to Jack I'm worth my membership, and to Erik that I can handle bein' the Freak King of New York, an' you have to pick tonight to blow up the docks! Then, then, ya cocksucker, ya come in here and try to fuck my shit up? Not on this planet, fucko! You want me to give you that beating I owe you from the joint, motherfucker?" Paul asked.

He shot the goon on the catwalk in his other kneecap.

"Stay the fuck down, asshole, or I'll have my man come up and dump your ass in the soup! I'm tellin' youse, Edgar, you are really pissin' me off!" he yelled.

Moloch threw his arms up in the air.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, not me, kid! Take it easy. Watch the muscle, huh? These are my personal guards. I never go anywhere without guards; it's no offence to you."

"That's why I only took his knees out. But I'm runnin' pretty short on professional courtesy, here."

"Look, kid I'm not looking for a piece of your action. I'm looking to have a little piece of the city for my own. Just the docks? Who wants the docks? And to sock it to that cocksucker, Eddie Blake. He won't give a shit about those two fossils, or the Bat's butt boy, but he won't be too happy with you after you toss his little girl into that vat of boiling acid." Moloch chuckled.

"What? I'm not going to…" Paul began

"No, you're right. I'm going to do it. And don't worry. I'll wait for you to get your ransom money, and your piece of ass. Like I said I'm not trying to muscle in on your action. I'll sit back there behind the tank until you've played out your whole scene. Just leave a little bit for me, huh? I hear she's hot stuff, and she'll spread 'em for just about anybody. That goddamn broad, she goes around acting like she's so tough. No broad is that tough. It's all smoke and mirrors. Some con job Eddie and the League is trying to pull for publicity, if you ask me. See, this is where my plan comes in. I may be the one who's going to toss the twinkie into the dip, but I'm not here. Right?"

"Whaddya mean you're not here?" Paul demanded.

"This is your plan, your setup, and you wrote the ransom demand. That must mean that you're the one who defiled Eddie's little girl and dumped her in the deadly brew. That's why I'm letting you have the ransom money, kiddo. You're going to need it to try and run from that motherfucker. The joke's on him, this time."

"That's it! First he calls me and Bruce a couple of queers, and then he threatens to rape and murder my sister? This game's over!" Dick Grayson seethed.

Hollis Mason stopped him.

"Not so fast, son. None of us are armed. And we are well and truly tied up now. But Paulie's got a gun, and you can see from those shots that his Uncle has taught him how to use it. Besides, it's only dry ice and bathwater. We know that and Moloch doesn't. And your sister can take care of herself." Hollis Mason replied.

"But what about Paulie?" Robin asked.

"He's the Comedian's nephew. He went toe to toe with his Uncle and walked away from it. I'm sure he knows how to take care of himself. He's doing a pretty good supervillain. I've got my hands almost untied. You two do the same. I'll give the signal if we need to get in there." The Captain announced.

"I think we may. To help Moloch. It looks like the Big Bad Blake in our Paul is coming out." Hollis interjected.

Paulie's heart was hammering in his chest, he had never shot anybody before.

But he was a supervillain, at least tonight, and this was serious shit; their lives were at stake.

Before the eyes of his friends, the three masks, Crazy Paulie, the cocky, strutting king of the freaks, who would do just about goddamn anything, met up halfway with the Green Jackal, ruthless masked avenger, loved by woman, feared by men, and alchemy occurred.

Paul Blake went through an abrupt transformation.

He squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height, his hands balled up into fists. His body seemed almost to inflate with his fury, and the broad, cold smile that his mother and his uncle had worn when they killed his grandfather, the grin that Mick the Merciless had sported as he dispatched any number of victims, spread across Paul's face.

"Now he really looks like Eddie." Hollis whispered.

"Bullshit! Fucking bullshit!" Paul yelled.

He shot the other goon, the one standing next to Moloch, through the hand he was holding his gun in, disarming him, then he stalked over to Moloch and shot the goon again, in both knees, at point-blank range.

Moloch, obviously afraid, jumped back.

Paulie felt a little sick when the felt the man's blood splat onto him, it was surprisingly warm, but he knew he couldn't think about that right now.

That man was probably there to kill him.

Kill all the men, and after they were dead, who knew what they were planning to do with Rosie?

"You fuckin' coward! I don't need no gun for what I'm gonna do to you, Molly! Skinny, go get those fuckin' guns! Bring that prick down from my catwalk! And you, punk, you and your girlfriend can sit there and tie what's left of your pants around your knees and shut the fuck up or I'll toss you in the soup instead of blowing your brains out! Stop 'em bleedin', Skinny, I don't want blood all over my floor. Tie 'em up and gag' em."

"Look, Greenie…" Moloch began.

Paulie put his gun away, pulled his massive fist back across the East River the way an archer pulled back his bow, and launched his arrow at Moloch, slamming him right between the eyes.

The villain was airborne for a few seconds before he landed in a heap against the far wall.

Paulie was right on top of him.

He grabbed Moloch by his arms, pinning them to his sides so he couldn't go for any gun he might have had, and lifted him up so that his toes were brushing against the ground.

"Goddamn you, Magic Man, I fuckin' told you when we was in the joint that if you fucked with me you were a dead man! And this is fuckin' with me! I'm the Green Jackal, pal. Nobody fucks with me! Nobody!" Paulie snarled.

"Hey, kid, we can talk about this. I'll take the blame for icing the Twinkie. Let's…"

"Shut the fuck up! Rosie, come over here and frisk this waste."

"How am I gonna do that while you've got him like that?" Rosie asked.

Paul thought about it, and then turned the smaller man upside down, and shook him, violently, causing several weapons to fall out of his robes.

Captain Metropolis turned his face towards his cape and laughed.

"Check him now." Paul suggested to Rosie.

"What do I know about frisking a guy?" Rosie asked

"I'll do it! I know!" Skinny said.

He came down off the catwalk.

It was a good thing he'd spent a little time working with wiseguys, or else this shit would really be freaking him out.

Skinny frisked the upside-down supervillain, and found an additional knife and gun on him.

"He's clean, now."

"Okay, kid, you made your point. I get it. You're the real deal and you're not fucking around. And I'm clean. Now how about putting me down?"

Paulie lifted him high in the air, by the throat, with one arm.

"I'll put your ass down when you're dead, motherfucker." He snarled.

All of the sudden Paulie really felt capable of killing Moloch, and as much as that frightened him, he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to stop squeezing.

Or even if he should.

Just then, the sound of three loud blasts of a car horn rang out.

That was the signal.

Napalm to the rescue, and Paulie hoped she had brought Uncle Eddie with her.

Paul dropped Moloch like a hot potato and dove for safety at the side of the vat, giving Moloch only enough time to stand up, coughing and inquire as to the "What the" part of his intended "What the fuck?" before the warehouse doors blew open under the onslaught of a shiny black and chrome Buick Wildcat with some super-modifications that screamed through the door and ground to a halt just short of bisecting him, pinning him against the wall, instead.

"That'll be my little sister. This is where the real fun begins." Robin observed, drily.

"Did you see that stop, Nelly? And the brakes didn't even squeal. What a brake job! She's one of the best mechanics in the five boroughs. Good driver, too." Hollis Mason enthused.

"What is that?" Nelson asked.

`"Basically, it's a '65 Buick Super Wildcat. With some modifications." Hollis replied.

That wasn't really what Captain Metropolis was asking, but when the door opened up and the Harlequin stepped out, in a black mask and Jester's cowl with bullets on the ends instead of bells, wearing camouflage paratrooper pants tucked into a pair of jump-boots with an OD combat vest and undershirt over a bulletproof vest, the two .45's in their double shoulder holsters over the tank top, and carrying a Tommy gun in her hands, he got his answer.

Both she and her clothes were besmirched with soot, blood, black powder, and gun oil, and she didn't seem to notice or mind.

"So that's why they call her Napalm. She looks like the centrefold for Soldier of Fortune." He commented

Hollis Mason laughed.

Liv slammed the car door.

"You see this, Hollis? Not a scratch! Goddamn battering ram works perfect! Looks good, too. We're gonna hafta do some body work over the week-end, though. You and me and Joe Mac. Everything alright with you over there, Greenie? He didn't damage my merchandise, did he?"

"No."

"Good. Stay there by the tank or I'll cut you in half."

Napalm threw back the bolt on the Tommy gun; it made a loud, metallic clang that reverberated through the metal-walled warehouse.

"You know what, Moloch? You have really put me in a helluva bad mood. For one thing, you are one rude motherfucker. You and your goons. I should say your ex-goons. Now I know you didn't get an invitation to this little party, but here you are, crashin' it anyway. For another thing, you really interrupted the flow of my day. I just had my car all finished and now I'm gonna have to spend the whole weekend doing body work. And I'm gonna have to pay a helluva surcharge for overnight delivery of bulletproof glass. That, and I need a new bullet-proof vest, and that .357 Magnum slug is gonna leave a helluva painful fuckin' bruise on my chest. It had better heal by my photo shoot with _Rolling Stone_ on Tuesday, or I will personally rip your balls off with my bare hands, and serve them to you for your last meal. Worst of all, pal, I came here to fuck this Green Jackal guy, and then maybe kill him, which is my all time favourite thing to do to good lookin' supervillains. I mean it's Friday night, and I wanted to enjoy myself. But what do I gotta do, instead? I gotta get a team together, stop a fuckin' gang war and all kinds of shit I didn't wanna go through, today. Ya know what I'm sayin? Well, as long as you're here, come out from around that car with your hands up, lift up that cape and turn around for me. Slowly."

"What? How?"

"Back it up in there. Just a little."

The engoine came on and the car backed up just a hair, enough for Moloch to get around it.

"C'mon, chief. Do it. Or I'll shoot your cock off." Liv encouraged him.

Moloch lifted his cape and turned around.

In the car, the Comedian was laughing and pounding on the steering wheel.

"Oh no. No, that won't do at all. Buddy, don't quit your day job. Whaddya you think?"

Laurie got out of the car.

"Ugly as sin. Too bad. I thought there might be one for me."

"Well, you can take a shot at Greenie before I rub his ass out."

"That might work. So, I'll go take care of those other goons. Skinny, get the fuck away from there, don't pretend like you know what you're doing."

One of the goons was trying to get out of his bonds, and Laurie knocked his head against the other goon's head, knocking them both out.

Then she tied them up securely

"I'm gonna go untie the hostages, Harlequin."

"Good idea, Silk Spectre. You want a shot at this guy? You can have the first punch. Be my guest. Give him a good kick in the nuts."

"I've had plenty of shots at his goons, tonight. Besides, I'm not the one he was going to rape and toss into a tank of acid. You go right ahead."

"Oh well. Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go."

With an air of casual annoyance Liv punched Moloch quite forcefully in the solar plexus and when his mouth opened to issue a grunt, she thrust the hot barrel of the chopper into it until he gagged.

"Shut the fuck up, Molly. Skinny, get your ass over here and frisk this mook like the wiseguys taught you. C'mon, c'mon, let's go, my trigger finger's getting itchy."

"I already have. I think you should whack him. Just shoot the cocksucker."

"Where's the fun in that? If he dies, he's goin' the hard way. So, where's his fuckin' guns? And his goons' guns?"

"On the floor."

"On the floor! Fuck me, you guys are a buncha amateurs! It is hard to find good help in the supervillain business. Get the goddamn hardware, and throw it in the juice. Now get your ass over by the vat. Take Rosie with you. How you guys doin' up there on the chair lift? Ya alright?" the Harlequin called.

"We're fine. Almost untied. You're not going to shoot everyone, are you?" Dick called, a little nervously.

"Of course not. That wouldn't be very super heroic, would it?"

She turned the gun around, and hit Moloch in the ribs with the butt of it.

He went down.

"Stay there, fucko. If you so much as twitch, I will pick your ass up by your neck and your nuts and toss you into that vat."

Whistling as she went, the Harlequin popped the trunk, put her chopper in it and closed the trunk.

Moloch was in a bad way.

He had swallowed one of his teeth, he had a broken rib, and he felt like his guts were on fire.

"Ok, Molly. So, ya think I'm some kinda made-up media sensation and that in real-life I'm just some cupcake that the Comedian fills up with cream, huh? Well, let's find out. If you can get past me, Molly, you can leave."

"I can just go? Free and clear?" Moloch asked.

"Absolutely. I never saw you. You'll have to hire some new goons, but I'll even take care of cleanup. Show me what you got. This is what you call a one time offer. Hell, the first punch is free." The Harlequin replied, cheerily.

Moloch wasn't exactly a fighter, but he figured he could beat the shit out of Eddie Blake's mattress back.

He hit her as hard as he could, right in the face.

She didn't budge.

She didn't even flinch.

"That didn't even hurt. I ain't even bleedin'. Is that all you got? Try someplace else. I got faith in you." Liv taunted him.

Moloch raised his fist again, and Liv caught it, and twisted his arm until she felt and heard a few of the bones in his wrist snapping and popping.

Moloch screamed.

"I said the first punch was free, not the second."

She drove her elbow into his nose, flattening it with a bloody crunch.

"This is too easy. I can see why you gotta hire all those goons with guns. Here, Eddie showed me this one. I'm sure it's not your first time."

Liv slammed Moloch with an uppercut almost as deverstating as Eddie Blake's, and he flew back, landing on the hood of the car.

She got genuinely angry.

"Did you dent my hood, you fuck? If you dented my hood, I'll rip your arms off an' beat you to death with 'em!"

Liv pulled Moloch off the car.

He was screaming in abject terror.

The Comedian got out of the car.

"Kid?"

"Jesus, Eddie, you fuckin' blind? I'm workin', heah! Don't bother me."

"Yeah, yeah. Why dontcha take a fuckin' coffee break? Put him down, he's had enough from you."

The Harlequin put Moloch down, and he actually crawled across the floor and threw his arms around his arch-nemesis' feet.

"Eddie! Eddie, don't let her kill me, Eddie! I didn't mean it! I swear! I just wanted the ransom money and I was trying to scare the green kid!" he begged.

The Comedian flicked his ash on Moloch's back, put his cigar back in his mouth, then reached down, grabbed Moloch by the throat and lifted him high in the air with one arm.

"What was that again, Jacobi?"

"Can't talk…choking…"

"Oh, I'm sorry."

The Comedian tossed Moloch across the room, then walked over, picked him up by his lapels and slammed him against the metal wall.

"You know what? I don't believe you. I'm sorry, pal. You and me are through. I'm gonna have to get a new nemesis."

He was planning on knocking him around a little harder, but the kid had already worked him over pretty good.

Besides, he had a much, much better idea.

Smirking, the Comedian picked Moloch up over his head and started carrying him over to the tank.

"No! No, not that! Please, not that! NO! NO! OH GOD, NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

When the Comedian dropped Moloch into the tank, Liv started to laugh, and so did her partner.

Moloch bobbed to the surface.

The look on his face was absolutely priceless.

The Harlequin and the Comedian laughed so hard, they had to lean on each other for support.

"Bathwater and dry ice? Bathwater and dry ice! What the fuck is this? Some kind of put up job?"

"Yup. It sure is some kind of put up job." Liv replied.

The Comedian was laughing so hard, he could hardly speak.

"You wanna hear the punchline? There's no fuckin' ransom money! All Greenie wants is a piece of ass from my partner!"

Now Moloch started to laugh, in spite of himself.

"No money? He kidnaps three masks, suspends them over a nice warm sitz bath in a heated tank and he asks for no money? And he thinks this one's gonna fuck him? Yeah, sure. With that tire iron. In his ass, maybe."

Even the superheroes on the chair lift laughed.

"Are you guys in on this, too?"

"You bet, Moloch." Hollis Mason yelled.

"So you're telling me I took the biggest gamble of my life, burned my bridges with the Joker, and dropped myself deeper into the shit than I'll ever get out of over some put-up job?"

"Yeah. You lose, pal." Liv said, cheerfully.

"I am fucked. I'm gettin' out. I think I'll just drive myself back to fuckin' Arkham. Maybe I can figure somethin' to tell Jack, some way to play this off. I surrender. Jesus Christ."

Liv taped Moloch's hands together with duct tape.

"You want me to take him out to Cap?" Laurie asked.

"Boy, does your costume make you look like you're an even bigger whore than your mother was." Moloch taunted Laurie.

Before the Comedian could do or say anything by way of reprisal, the Silk Spectre picked up a piece of the pipe that had been used to hook up the tank, and calmly smashed one of his kneecaps, then the other.

"YOOOOOOOWWWWWW!"

"Boy, does your scream make you sound like even more of a pussy than I thought you were." She retorted.

The Comedian had a good laugh on that one

"Now you match your two girlfriends. Let me tell you the best part. The Green Jackal is not a supervillain." Laurie continued

"What?"

"This was all a training exercise. Greenie is a trainee for the Watchmen. We sent him in to Arkham to gather information, and this was his training exercise. You crossed the Joker for less than nothing." Liv explained.

Moloch looked desolate.

"Move. Now. Asshole." Laurie ordered.

"On these knees?" Moloch insisted.

"Skinny! I've got Moloch, you get those other two and we'll drag them outside."

Laurie and Skinny departed with Moloch and his bodyguards, definitely the worse for wear.

As soon as they were gone, Paulie pulled his cowl back.

"Fuck, I can't hardly breathe in that thing! It needs some work. Napalm, we ain't goin' through with the other thing, are we?"

"Naw. I think we already proved our point. Lemme help you with the apparatus."

Liv took her cowl off, and Paulie pulled his down and unzipped his costume.

Paulie reached under her hair and took a complicated prosthetic off the back of her head, and then she unstrapped an elaborate contraption from his chest.

They tossed them aside.

"What the fuck is this?" Eddie asked

"This? This is the old triple cross, Eddie. Ya see, me and Paulie were in this together, all along. I told him I was the Harlequin and we cooked up this whole scenario. Ran it like a play, rehearsed all week. Had a plan to get Bruce and you here, an' everything. We even had a big ending. We were gonna stage a shooting where I shoot him because he betrayed you and he shoots me because he doesn't know I'm Napalm. Just to show you and Bruce how your plan might have gone wrong. But as your plan went wrong all on its own, and me an' Paulie just hadda face a real test, I ain't got the stomach for it."

Captain America came in with Wolverine, who was cleaning his bloody claws with a piece of rag.

He had completely recovered.

"That one came outa nowhere, didn't he, Cap?" he was commenting

They looked at Paulie and Liv standing there with their cowls off, and Eddie, for once in his life, looking completely shocked.

"What the devil?" Cap asked.

"That's the triple cross." Logan replied.

"Yeah. Makes your head hurt, don't it? I gotta go to the can and change an' wash up." Liv announced.

She walked right by Eddie, and he just looked at her like she had ten tits.

Paulie suddenly realised it was all over.

His legs started to feel rubbery, so he just plopped himself down on the floor.

He could hear the sirens outside, car doors slamming, tromping boots, voices shouting, trucks beeping, water shooting out of fire hoses, and the words coming out of the mouths of the masks who were talking to him began to sound like muddle and goo.

Paulie shook his head a little.

"…don't look so good, Paulie."

Paulie looked up and there was his father and his brother.

"I don't feel so good, either, Dad." Paulie said.

"It's okay, Paulie. Ya just had a little too much excitement, tonight. Why dontcha go home, an' get some sleep." Uncle Eddie suggested.

Right now, being at his own home, in his own bed, sounded like a little slice of heaven to Paulie.

"That's a good idea. Uhhh, Jesus, I'm sorry I went against youse, Uncle Eddie. But when somethin' ain't right, it ain't right, and what you set me an' Liv up for, it wasn't right." Paulie said.

"You gotta point there, Paulie. Go on, go home. Don't worry about it. We're still square."

Paulie let his father and his brother help him out the door.

On his way home, Paulie fell asleep in the back of Pat's truck, feeling like a wounded soldier being driven away from the battlefield.

The war wasn't over, but for him, for now, it was.

**V: Liv**

I had clothes planted up in the apartment, of course, and I took my uniform off, had a quick shower and put everything in the bag I had my change of clothes in after I got dressed.

I guess I could have gone downstairs in a huff and given Eddie the whole speech about him and Bruce betraying me, and the terrible lost feeling I had, worse than the feeling when the itch was on me, and how I didn't know where to live, who to trust, or what to do, but after the night I had, I wasn't sure how I felt, anymore, and I was too tired to explain.

I just wanted to get away, that was all.

So, after I went to the can, I ducked out a window and went down the fire escape.

With that in mind, getting out on the street was a bad idea, because all hell was breaking loose.

There were ambulances and fire trucks and cops and firemen and EMT's and dead goons and shell casings and big puddles of water and blood and gasoline everywhere, and the streets were still on fire.

I was already pretty far out of it, and walking out into Hell with the lid off didn't help my state of mind, any.

And in the middle of all of it, there was Commissioner Gordon.

Now, Jim Gordon likes to let on he doesn't know who I am and who Dick is and who Bruce is, and that's usually fine with me, but, tonight, I wasn't in the mood to play anybody's silly little game.

I walked right up to him and handed him the bag with my costume in it.

"Give this to him when you see him. Tell him I'm alright, I'll be back for it in a couple of days."

Before he could say anything to me, or do anything, I walked away.

I heard him telling some of his men to stop me, bring me back, but I know the docks better than any cop, and I made a nice, clean getaway.

I went to the closest subway station, and headed for Grossmann's.

It was good to get away from all that craziness, back to the regular, normal New York City at eight on a Friday night craziness.

When I walked into Grossmann's, Sophie was behind the counter; I guess Benny was taking the night off.

Do you know about Sophie?

Sophie's quite a character. She's had quite a life. Her whole family that didn't live in New York got wiped out in the Holocaust, and she spent the war years hiding in basements and fighting her way out of Europe with anti-Nazi partisans.

She met Eddie in the course of the war, and from what I gather from the stories he tells, they killed a whole lotta buncha Nazis together before she showed up back in New York in '44.

When Eddie came home in '45, he and Sophie resumed their association, and decided that if Rome was burning, they might as well dance to the fiddler's tune. If you want to know more about their adventures in the late forties, I suggest you get some back issue of the New York Post. In those days, they had a lot of headlines like "Comedian and Lady Nazi-Killer in Tea Room Jazz Band Reefer Raid" and shit like that.

Sophie married Max Grossman in '47, and left him and Eddie flat when she went to go fight in the Israeli army in '48, and came home a year later, and that's when Grossmann's opened, I think.

Anyway, I have Wednesdays with Logan, and Eddie still has Wednesdays with Sophie.

He calls her "crazy Jew bitch" with the same fond look on his face that Sophie gets when she calls him a "shanty Mick bastard."

In addition to running the family business, Sophie's been teaching a self-defence class for women at the local Jewish Community Centre and another at the YWCA since 1950.

I see her a lot at the firing range, too.

She marched for civil rights and against Vietnam and she still marches for women's rights and she's a member of NOW.

Sophie is fifty-one and she could pass for 35, and last year she casually called me to come down and take care of a mugger for her and when I got there I discovered she had drilled him right between the eyes,

Twice.

In the same spot.

That is some kinda shooting.

I like talking to Sophie.

I wanna be just like her when I grow up.

So, when I came in, I must have looked like I had just been through a battle, because Sophie came from around the counter and sat me in a chair.

Before I knew what was going on, she had a cup of coffee and a bowl of hot chicken soup in front of me, and put a blanket around my shoulders.

"What are you doing here, Liv? Benny's upstairs, sleeping. You should be home. In bed. Where the hell is Eddie? He should be taking care of you."

"I'm hungry, Sophie. And I don't have a home to go to no more."

Sophie walked over to the door and put the "Back in 10 minutes" sign up, locked the door, and came and sat with me.

"Oh? And why is that?"

So I told her how I felt.

"I'm tired, Sophie. An' I feel lost. Like nothin' in the world makes sense, anymore. The only good thing that came outta this is that Cap realised just what kinda war I been fightin' in these streets, an' that now, maybe, I'll get some fuckin' help. Because you know what? I need it. I do. I'm tired. I'm real fuckin' tired of bein' the goat's understudy. At least Eddie gets fuckin' respect. You know what I get? More bullet holes in my ass. An' then, I get stabbed in the back by my partner, and my stepfather. I got no place to go, yunno? My home ain't my home, anymore. And I can't go to Eddie's place. How the fuck am I supposed to sleep under the roof of one man who betrayed me and in the bed of another? And now all this shit's over, I'm just tired. But I'm mad, too. This was supposed to be my moment in the sun. Even a dirty dog gets a warm spot on the sidewalk, and this was supposed to be mine. When I got to go to the Superhero Summit and stand up in front of every mask in America and show them what I'm made of. What I accomplished. How I came back from bein' nothin but a two bit shanty Irish thug from Brooklyn, a drunk and a whore. Instead, I get this shit. An' after I'm done here, I'm gonna drag my achin' busted ass out into the street, just like I done a million times, except this time, I ain't sure where the fuck I'm takin it to. Prob'ly back to my flop at Trivelino Mac's. It ain't much, but it's mine."

Sophie let out a big sigh, and went and got herself some coffee.

"You know something, Liv? Since you first put the mask on, I've worried over you, almost like you were related. After all, your mother was such a lovely woman, wouldn't hurt a fly, and she was taken from you so young. You've had two fathers but no mother, and I suppose I worried about you because Merrie wasn't alive to do it. So I'm going to talk to you like a mother would, and all I have to say is, honey, I understand how you feel, but you should be ashamed of the words coming out of your mouth!"

That was not what I expected to hear.

"Why?" I asked

"Why? Trivelino, the only people who had any obligation to you in this world were your father and mother. Your mother died and your father did the best he could for as long as he could, but he was no man to raise a child. Neither the Comedian nor Batman had any obligation to you. Batman could have left you to the state to shove your ass in some foster home or orphanage when you were a kid. And Eddie could have told him he had enough trouble without having an apprentice he had to worry was gonna murder him in his bed if she got drunk enough. All those men did was worry about you. I sat here many days, and Benny many nights, watching Batman sit with Superman, or Captain America, or your brother, Robin, and talk about you. About how worried he was about you. And then, when Eddie started working with you, I'd hear it from him. That was his pillow talk, worrying about you. These men didn't have to help you. You're Batman's worst enemy's daughter. When he looks at you when you smile, he sees that enemy's face. But he takes you in, adopts you, trains you, feeds you, clothes you, gives you a place to live, treats you were his own daughter. Even in your darkest times, when your ways made him look bad in front of every mask in New York for taking a chance on you, he stood beside you. And believed in you. And Eddie, what he did to straighten you out was nothing short of a miracle, and he did it with something that there's no greater force of in nature. The love of a bad man."

"I thought ya were supposed to look for the love of a good man." I said

"That's what they tell you, honey. I hear it all the time. Oh, how wonderful it must be, Sophie, to be loved by a good man like Max. And this is true. It's easy to be loved by a good man. And love is always wonderful. What you never hear about is the love of a bad man. Not so easy to be loved by a bad man. But, if you've been loved by both, you always carry the suspicion that maybe, just maybe the bad man loved you more. Because he needed you more. My Max, I love him, I have loved him since I met him in 1937, but such a man as Eddie, well, he's a habit I never quite managed to quit. Did Eddie ever love me? Truly? Who knows? I'll tell you what I do know. Why I went all the way to Israel and into the army. Because whatever Eddie had for me, it was too heavy on me. Too much for me to bear. Look at Sally Jupiter. Everybody knows Eddie loves her, and it nearly killed both of them. She takes him in small doses. His love's too heavy on her. It's been too heavy on all the women in his life. Except you. You love him, with every drop of blood in your black heart, as black as his. You'd bear him if he was the weight of the world. Eddie needs a woman like you, Liv. His whole life he's been looking for one. He bares his soul to you, he tears out his heart and lays it at your feet, and what do you do? Tell him he's betrayed you? This thing with Paulie, he was convinced you made a pass at his nephew and that broke his heart. Maybe he was wrong. And your stepfather. Sure, they made a mistake. But don't go telling Eddie that he betrayed you, that you can't sleep in his bed anymore because he stabbed you in the back! Liv, a good man knows he can find another woman to love him. A bad man knows he can't. You might as well kill him, if you're going to treat him like that, after everything he's done for you." Sophie told me.

You know I never really looked at it that way?

So, Sally forgave Eddie for trying to rape her. Possibly even kill her. And Eddie forgave Sally for taking his daughter away from him, because she was afraid of him.

I realised I was acting like a stupid, spoiled cunt, again, just like I had when I had my Troubles, or when I went out and got sloshed and got into a fight instead of facing the music and telling Eddie I thought the Green Jackal might be Paulie.

Even if I was mad at him and Bruce, right now, Eddie was my partner and Bruce was my stepfather.

I had to try and find it in my heart as black as midnight in a coal mine to forgive them.

I remembered something Logan had told me, a long time ago, about me holding onto my anger, and cherishing it the way an oyster does a piece of sand to make it into a pearl.

"Darlin', an' oyster uses a piece of sand to make a pearl, not a piece of shit. You're never gonna make a turd into anything but a turd. If you can't let your anger over somethin' outa you, then you just gotta let it go. Or you'll poison yourself."

That's what had been happening to me all week.

I was holding onto my anger, gloating over it, cherishing it and nurturing it and saving it like it was made of gold, instead of shit.

And it was poisoning me.

I thought about how I had poisoned Paulie with it, too, and how he and I had actually made a plan to make Eddie and Bruce and whatever other masks were present think that we killed each other, right in front of them.

Now, I can't remember how, and I know the how is what my bad nightmare that used to bring on my Troubles is about, but I know that when I was a little girl, I saw my mother die, right in front of me, and you don't need to be Dr. Freud to figure out what that did to my life.

The idea that I could be so poisoned with rage that I almost inflicted that pain, wilfully and with, as they say, malice aforethought, on Eddie and Bruce and Dick and Hollis and Nelly and Logan and Cap, it took my fucking breath away.

"I'm no good, Sophie. No good at all." I told her.

"Sure you are, honey. You're just young, and you've had a troubled life, and there's a lot you don't know yet. Let me warm that soup up for you."

I sat there, while Sophie warmed up the soup, thinking about how Eddie and Bruce would have felt, seeing me die before their very eyes, the way my mother had died before mine, and then, something happened.

I don't know if it was the sight of the docks on fire, or the nature of my plan, or the fact that I was about to be inducted, or any of the other realisations I had lately, but that feeling came over me; that terrible feeling that's the only thing I really fear.

Terror.

Hopeless, helpless terror, the terror that comes out of being innocent and helpless and unable to stop something horrible from happening.

That feeling is the whole goddamn reason I became the no good sunnuvabitch I am; I don't care who I have to maim, murder or mutilate, I'll never have that feeling again.

Never.

It's the feeling I get in my worst nightmare that used to bring on the Troubles; the one I wake up from with that feeling, but only vague memories of the dream.

Except now the memories were clear as day, as clear as the day they happened.

"Sophie!" I yelled.

I was crying, you bet I was crying, there were tears in my voice as Sophie ran back to the table.

"I remember. I remember what happened to my Ma."

I tried hard to keep it together, but then the whole world just fell in on me, and I completely lost it.

It was the end of all things.

**IV: Bruce**

Worst case scenario.

He had always hated that phrase, because it trivialised what it was meant to convey.

Complete and unimaginable horrific disaster that no one could have expected or adequately planned for.

That was why he was glad that Clark didn't say anything about Selena being in his room with him; he came in with a grave look on his face, and he didn't say that a worst case scenario was in progress.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Bruce, but something terrible is happening in New York, and both your stepchildren are in the thick of it. I'm not even sure exactly what is going on, but what I'm hearing over the radio are a bunch of crazy messages about Moloch escaping from prison and using your training exercise as a platform to launch some kind of supervillain gang war against the Joker. Liv's been under heavy fire and she and a team are trying to get to the warehouse where the exercise is taking place to rescue Dick, who has, at this point, been actually kidnapped by Moloch and his men. Captain America, Wolverine and the Comedian have gone to the rescue, and, I think you should leave for New York. I'm leaving right now."

By the time they got to the scene, it was under control.

Firemen were extinguishing the last of a series of fires in alleys and dumpsters and abandoned warehouses; police cars and ambulances were everywhere, and Jim Gordon was standing in the middle of it, talking to Captain America.

The show was over, and Cap was explaining to the Commissioner the story that was going to be the official S.H.I.E.L.D cover story, and Jim was willing to go along, but he wanted to know what really happened.

"I made a terrible mistake, that's what. I'll explain it to you later, Jim. Are any of these our dead, Cap?" Batman asked, trying to be casual.

Businesslike.

"We didn't suffer any casualties. The Harlequin was shot in the chest at point-blank range with a .357 Magnum, but she was wearing a military grade bullet-proof vest. It didn't slow her down at all. Listen, Batman, I'm sorry, I have to apologise to you, and to your son and especially your daughter. I had no idea this city, my city, had devolved this way. We're going to have to do something about this - The Avengers and the JLA, together. It's not just going away."

Superman frowned.

He wasn't quite ready to accept the evidence that had unfolded before his eyes.

"I don't know if I agree with you on that, Cap, but right now, we would like to talk to our trainee." Clark told him.

"That's just it. We don't know where she got to."

"I know where she got to. She came walking through this mess like she was shuffling over the surface of the moon, and handed me this knapsack. Told me I was supposed to give it to Batman. She was out of costume, so I didn't recognise her, of course. But that was how far out of it she was. I tried to get her to stay until I could get Cap or the Comedian to come out and get her, but she wandered off. She looked like she was just exhausted, confused and disorientated. I can't say I blame her."

Jim Gordon handed Bruce the Harlequin's knapsack.

"The Comedian's already gone looking for her. He figures she's at Grossmann's."

"Then I'll go there, too. By myself. You understand, don't you?" Bruce asked.

"Sure we do. Cap and I have a lot to talk about tonight, anyway. And it looks like there's still a lot of work to do here. Well, Cap, are you ready to get to work?"

The two heads of America's greatest superhero teams looked at each other, grimly, and then smiled, resolutely.

"You bet, Supes."

***

Batman and the Comedian both arrived at Grossmann's around the same time, one jumping out of a taxi, the other on foot.

They could both see Liv, through the window, sitting at a table with a blanket over her shoulders.

She was eating a cup of soup with timid, faltering movements, staring into it like someone who had just completely lost their composure and was only just getting it back.

The door was locked, Bruce knocked and Sophie Grossmann opened it for them.

"Finally! You boys better get in here. I don't know if it was the fire, or that cockamamie plan she had to make you two think she and Paulie had killed each other, but Liv just remembered about her mother's death. Everything about her mother's death."

Bruce was surprised; he didn't know that Mrs. Grossmann knew the horrible circumstances of Liv's mother's death.

The Comedian and Batman were both heavily involved.

In the early fifties, a religiously based almost neo-Nazi hate group calling itself the Holy Church of Humanity began a reign of terror in New York. It began with people in strange faux medieval robes vandalising stores belonging to Jewish businessmen and black churches, beating up homeless junkies and accosting suspected mutants in the streets.

Their activities escalated to terrible acts of violence. Whole families were slain in their homes because one or two of them were mutants. Businesses, homes and churches patronised by Jews, blacks, mutants and suspected leftists were burned to the ground.

And for those people the Church of Humanity decided were the most evil, they reserved a special fate.

Several arsons in abandoned buildings on the docklands revealed charred human corpses at the center.

They were burning people at the stake.

Liv's mother, Meriwether Napier, the former Meriwether Damiano's father was a shoe salesman from a little village just outside Palermo. But, she and her Irish mother were what the more enlightened 1970's would have called traditional practitioners of herbal and folk medicine, and the superhero community referred to as people with greater than normal psi-abilities.

In East New York in the thirties and forties, they were just called witches.

Meriwether was 15 years old in 1940 when she married crazy, red-haired Irish crime boss Jack Napier, who was 24 at the time. Although she and her mother never ran low on customers and the Damiano family were regular attendees at the local Catholic Church, they were socially ostracised because, after all, the women were witches.

Jack Napier was arguably the richest man in the neighbourhood and he had no shortage of his neighbours coming to him, looking for help of one kind or the other or making use of the businesses he ran, but in that he was both a hood and crazy, he didn't get invited to the best parties, either.

It was not, however, a marriage of convenience; the two outcasts were in love.

It was a love that survived Jack's being dumped into a vat of chemicals and changing much, at least physically.

Jack had never been sane and he had always been violent, but he had a soft spot for his gentle, pretty, generous wife, who devoted most of her time to using her gifts and knowledge to help the people around her; the very people who shunned her for all her life because she was a witch and a half-breed.

A soft spot which extended to his beautiful little daughter; she had his smile, and his green eyes and red hair, but other than that, she was the image of her mother.

The Joker lived in a bunker beneath an abandoned warehouse building at the docks that was just about as secure as the one Hitler had lived in. He knew what was going on in his city, and he thought that his wife, who was a witch and married to a freak of nature, and his daughter, worse, the child of a witch and a freak of nature, would be natural and quite high-profile targets for the killer cult.

He never wanted Merrie leave the bunker without him or at least three bodyguards; but Merrie wasn't the kind of woman who could be dictated to, and she often slipped away to take Trivelino to a park in Bensonhurst where her old school friends Aggie and Edie Blake took their children to play.

She called him from a pay phone to tell him she'd shook the guards again and that she'd be home with Liv by five.

At five-fifteen, the Joker went up into the street, and saw the flames rising from a deserted warehouse.

He wasted no time loading himself and his chopper into the fastest car he owned and practically flew down the two blocks or so to the scene of the fire.

Jack Napier had seen many horrors in his life. Some of them had been visited on him, some of them he visited on others, and some had nothing to do with him, at all.

But the worst horror of them all was bursting into the abandoned warehouse and seeing the stake in the middle of it, piled high with wood, and tongues of red and orange fire licking at a charred and blackened corpse bound to it; little more now that charred bones.

Charred bones and a blackened skull, jaws agape in a silenced scream.

There were five people in strange robes gathered around it, four chanting some weird verse, and the fifth attempting to throw a screaming, kicking, punching, biting, thrashing, scratching child into the flames.

Poor gentle Merrie had no fight in her, but Livvie was his little red devil, and she wasn't going down without a fight.

She saw him.

"Daddy! Daddy help me!" his little girl screamed in terror.

The Joker disabled the four with bursts of machine gun fire to their knees.

The fifth, terrified, simply dropped Livvie and began begging for his life.

She ran to her father and hid behind his long legs.

The Joker shot his legs out from under him, as well.

He picked Trivelino up.

"Close your eyes, Livvie. Don't look." He told her.

Diabolical tortures filled his mind, but what could be a more diabolical torture and a more fitting end to these fools than to be hoist by their own petard?

He put out the flames with the buckets of water the disabled cult members set aside for the task, and took Trivelino home, promising the wounded fiends that he would return.

He left her, momentarily, in the care of some of his men, and returned to the warehouse.

Carefully, he removed what was left of his Merrie from the metal pole she was tired to, and wrapped her in a blanket.

The four who had been chanting, he tied to the pole and burned alive.

They made a lovely fire.

The fifth, the executioner, he only burned partly, removing all of his extremities with a flaming torch; he would suffer a special kind of Hell in the room the Joker kept in his bunker for just such an occasion.

It took the man several days to die, but it was not revenge enough for him.

Trivelino didn't seem to remember what happened when she woke up in the morning, and Jack considered that a blessing for the child.

She remembered that Mommy had died, and accepted the memory of a sudden sickness that her father put in her mind.

But Trivelino was a different child.

It wasn't just the nightmares she had, at first, every night, no, something had changed in her.

Turned.

As young as he was, she had begun to look quite like him when she smiled.

He wanted them all dead, every woman-burning, baby-slaughtering madman among them.

But even with the Joker's criminal resources, he couldn't find out who every New York member of the Church of Humanity was, where they lived, under what guise as an ordinary citizen they operated.

That was a job for someone else.

An old friend of his and an old enemy; two men he knew he could trust.

The Comedian and the Batman.

The Joker hadn't been surprised that either of them were willing to take on the task. One of Eddie's sisters was a mutant and his longtime girlfriend a Jewess, and he had known gentle, beautiful Merrie all his life; she was a friend of his two oldest sisters.

As for the Bat, the Joker knew who he really was; a boy who had seen both his parents murdered before his eyes.

He would not let the same kind of murderers go unpunished.

It had been a messy affair; the two masks were the detectives, judge, jury and executioners of the members of the killer cult.

In an abandoned warehouse on the docks, with the survivors of the murdered present, the whole cabal, thirty members, were burnt alive at the stake.

The Church of Humanity, later called the Friends of Humanity, were rampant all over America by the 1970's, but, for the most part, they stayed out of the Tri-State area.

Their act of justice tinged with vengeance bound the three of them together and to the little girl, Trivelino.

She had been just a little girl; the villain and the two heroes hoped she would not remember.

The Joker never spoke of his wife's death to his daughter, and he always cautioned her not to tell people that her mother or her grandmother had been witches.

The world didn't know he was married; they assumed his daughter's mother was some gang moll whore he had used for the purpose of begetting a child and did away with, and he didn't let on otherwise; it was better for Trivelino that no one knew the truth.

When he found her again after being released from Arkham and sent her to live with Bruce Wayne, the Joker gave his 11 year old daughter the book of her mother's family's collected knowledge that had been in the family for generations. Liv learned things from her mother, her grandmother and her grandmothers before them through their words in her absence, but, for the most part, as her father suggested, kept them under her hat.

If she remembered it was only in her nightmares, and Trivelino's father and her stepfather waited down the long years with bated breath for the combination of bad blood and unspeakable trauma to rule out, and at first it seemed to them that they wouldn't.

Trivelino was a fairly normal little girl. She was an outcast, but she had friends among her kind, and even though she sneaked cigarettes, swore like a pirate and got into a lot of fights, such things were part of childhood.

And she was such a bright little girl, sunny and happy outside of her occasional spasms of temper, loyal to her friends, kind and generous and sweet, just like her mother had been.

She even wanted to be a superhero; she trained diligently and learned fast; even Jack was proud of her.

But then, as she hit her teens with a vengeance, a whole new Trivelino began to emerge, one whose childhood indiscretions gave rise to their sunny little superhero-in-training developing a frightening alter ego that was more than a hard-drinking, brawling, promiscuous Brooklyn Irish thug.

There was a rage in Trivelino, a malevolent rage that could not be denied or satiated, despite her attempts to sublimate it into her superhero work, a rage like fire, destructive, violent and all consuming.

She drove herself before it like a man who beats a dying horse before a rusty plow on parched fields, drove herself through a punishing, brutal mission that dragged her into the dark heart of the concrete jungle, where she used the rage like a sword against the most evil and degenerate people the city had to offer.

But the nightmares had returned and they gave birth to her Troubles, and the Troubles unleashed the full brunt of Liv's fury.

She had her Sicilian grandfather's bull-like constitution, and her father's genius intellect, dark and sardonic wit and his streetwise cyncism, and her mother's sixth sense that all combined with her training, and her implacable will to keep her going through many years of rage, lust, blood, and excess, but, in the end it left her close to death and madness, bravely soldiering on in an alcoholic twilight towards the dying of the light.

Neither of her fathers could redeem her; all of their attempts to do so had failed. All that they could do was offer her a safe place to come in from the cold to, and, eventually, a safe place to die.

But, there were three men bound to Liv Napier by a bloody justice; when the Joker and Batman turned to the Comedian to play his part, he turned them down, but she pulled him in, herself.

Now it had all come to a head. The plan the three men had hatched together had backfired, badly, with the Joker pulling out of it and Batman and the Comedian wishing they had, and now, Liv remembered.

Everything.

When they walked up to her table, Liv looked at both of them with a strange expression in her red-rimmed eyes.

Bruce didn't know what to say or what to do, but Eddie sat down across from his partner.

"Tough night, huh, kid?"

Liv laughed, harshly.

"Not my worst, partner. Not by a long shot. That would have to be the night they burned my Ma at the stake. She never done nothin' bad to nobody in her life. Not like me. And they burnt her at the stake." Liv said, quietly.

"Yeah kid, I know. But alla those bastards are dead now. Long dead. Me an' your stepfather, here, we hunted 'em down like dogs. Rounded 'em all up, got the families together of the people they killed and burnt them at the stake. And they're all still smokin an' toastin' in Hell, but it's a sure bet Merrie went straight to Heaven." Eddie told her.

"You did? The two of you?"

Bruce Wayne sat down.

"Yes. I'll explain it to you better, later, but yes, we did. After that, I always felt…responsible for you. I was investigating the case with the Comedian at the time. That was why…your father came to us for help. We would never have broken the case without Joker's information, but, had we been able to, your mother would still be alive. I always felt I had to make that up to you."

"Jesus, Pop, that wasn't your fault."

"It still happened."

"No wonder I went so nuts that time I broke up a meeting of the Friends of Humanity. I've always hated those cocksuckers. Now I know why. And lemme tell you both this. I know it won't bother you, Eddie, but I don't care if you throw me right out of the JLA and your house and your life, Pop, those people are vermin, and by God, I'm gonna treat 'em like vermin. Every time I find one of those sons of bitches, I'll kill him. Or her. Old or young, man or woman, if they're with those maggots, I'll kill 'em all, goddamnit, an' let God sort 'em out!" she cried.

"Sounds good to me. Dirty mask-killin', baby-murderin' sons of bitches." Eddie agreed.

"You'll get no argument from me, either, Trivelino. Those people are scum. Bigots, arsonists, murderers, plunderers, rapists, lunatics, all of them. I can't say I've even given one I've found the chance to explain his evil. Just don't let Clark know about it. Some things about this life are just too much for him to take." Bruce added.

Liv went back to eating, quietly.

There was more banging on the glass, and Sophie let somebody else in.

"What the fuck is going on?" Wolverine demanded.

"The kid remembers everything. About her Ma. And the Church of Humanity."

"Oh shit."

Logan sat down at the table with her, too.

He didn't hesitate to sit down right beside her, and he put his arm around her, and she hugged him.

"Shouldn't one of you guys be doing this? It's alright, Liv. Go ahead 'n cry. You'll feel better. Now, you listen to the ol' Canucklehead. I've had too many people I love murdered, quite a few of 'em right in front of me. Makes ya want revenge. And I ain't gonna tell ya that you should spare even one member of that cult of kill-crazy evil bastards when you meet em, but whatever you do, don't go lookin' for 'em. Because you can spend the rest of your life huntin' them down, and their children, and their old people, and killin' every one you find, and it ain't gonna help. Not even a little bit. You can't fill that hole up with blood, darlin'. You can't fill it at all. You just gotta learn to live with it, like you have. An' be glad for the people you still got, and do what you can to keep 'em. You understand?"

Liv nodded into his arm.

"Listen, kid, I know ya feel like you wish you was dead, now, but this memory has been festerin' in youse your whole life, and ya never could get it out. Now that ya shook it loose, ya might start ta feel better. How about we have Sophie put that soup in somethin', for ya, and you can go home?"

Liv sniffed, broke away from Logan, and nodded.

"Okay, Eddie."

Bruce Wayne stood up.

"I'll take her home."

"Yeah? I'm comin with you." Eddie volunteered.

"I'll call Alfred. I don't think Liv wants anyone to see her this way, not even a cab driver."

Logan stayed with them until Alfred came, and then he went to a pay phone and called the X-Mansion.

"Hello? Hello? Is that you, Logan? What the hell's going on in down there?"

"A whole lotta shit, Cyke, and not much of it's good. It's all over now, though, an' everything's under control. Listen, I got all shot to pieces tonight, and I feel like hell. You think you could drive down and get me, an' I'll tellya all about in on the way home?"

"Jesus, that's why I think that Summit is a bad idea. Everybody gets drunk, and high, and screws everything with an autograph book, and meanwhile, nobody's minding the store. I'm not driving you back down there."

"I don't wanna go back. Not until Napalm's induction, anyway."

"Well, I'll come get you as soon as I hang up. Where are you?"

"Grossmann's."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

**V: Liv**

As nights go, I've had better.

I was pretty goddamn exhausted, that was for sure.

It was a helluva way to end one of the lousiest weeks of your life.

And all that crazy shit, about betrayal, and backstabbing, and double-crossing and the plan that Paulie and I laid out, and everything that had been on my mind seemed crazy and remote and stupid after the night I'd had, and the really funny thing was, it wasn't the craziest, bloodiest, most violent night of my life.

I laughed over that one almost all the way home, when I wasn't crying.

Pop kept looking at me like I was nuts, but I couldn't help it.

Alfred drew me a bath and made me some nice hot tea, and looked at my lumps and bruises, especially the one that .357 left, and the good news was it was nothing serious, but the bad new was I was going to be in pain, but like Logan says, me and pain are old friends.

It took me awhile to convince Eddie and Pop, all of whom kept fussing over me like I was a little kid, that all I needed to do was take a bath and go to bed.

After I took my bath, I sat around in my robe and Alfred made me chicken soup, and after I ate it, I got in bed and shut out the light.

It was good to be home in my own bed and I was gone pretty goddamn fast.

I couldn't stay awake anymore; I just couldn't take it.

I don't know how much later it was I woke up because I heard voices in my living room.

Now, Eddie's costume smells like leather, gun oil, metal, sweat, and blood, and when the door to my bedroom opened, I smelled that Eddie's costume smell.

I was only half- awake; my eyes were still shut, and I was exhausted and naked in my bed without my glasses on, and for a minute I had this weird feeling of being completely helpless.

But I had been feeling that way a long time, that weird, lost feeling.

You wouldn't think the smell of leather, gun oil, metal, sweat and blood could make you feel better, but it was funny, in that weird state I was in the way that Eddie's costume smell just sucked all the anxiety out of me.

It made me feel kind of the way I felt when I went to sleep in my old bedroom at the Old Man's bunker.

And I don't often feel that way.

"Hey, kid?"

"Hiya, Eddie."

"I figured you might need some company, an' the hell with Jimmy, it ain't Wednesday."

You know, even the way I felt, Eddie made me laugh.

My voice sounds real distant and tired.

He leaves the light off, but I can hear him moving around the room and I can see shadows.

Then he gets in the bed with me.

I don't want to be awake, anymore, and I don't want to go back to feeling the way I felt all week, enraged and lost and betrayed.

I just want to get as close to my partner as I can and go to sleep.

But I can't.

"Eddie, you think I mighta had a real chance at a decent life if they didn't burn my Ma to death right in front of me? You know what my nightmare's about?"

"No. But I'm listenin'."

"First off, I feel the way I did when it happened. It's like livin' it all over again. These people got my Ma, and they're tyin' her to this pole and they set her on fire. And they got hold of me, and she's screamin' for help an' I'm too little an' helpless to save her. I can't even save myself. The Old Man has to save me. An' I keep seein' it, her screaming, blackened skull all ringed in flames. An' there was nothin', nothin' I could do."

"Yeah, well, lemme tell you somethin', kid. Ya come to the right place with that. If anybody knows what it's like to be little an' scared and helpless ta do anythin' to save yourself, let alone your Ma, it's me."

I got quiet, then.

"I dunno what was wrong with Pop. He was a mutant, but not in an obvious way. He could pass for an ordinary person real good. But he grew up bad because of it, an' I guess that was it. He wasn't too bad when he was sober. Not much worse than anybody else's Old Man in the neighbourhood. A little louder, a little quicker to smack you one, but not much worse. Thing was, Pop wasn't sober a lot. An', unlike me, he liked to bring his work home with him."

Eddie stopped for a minute, then he went on talking.

"The littlest thing would set him off. He'd tell you to pass the salt, an' if you didn't pass it fast enough, he'd knock you off your chair. Or grab your arm and put his cigarette out on it. Sometimes ya hadda be quiet as a church mouse, or he'd holler at you that you was makin' too much noise and beat ya with his fuckin' belt. The end with the buckle on it. Ya never got slapped in the face, ya got punched in the face. Wham! An' if ya did somethin' wrong, God help youse! The fuckin' guy tortured and murdered people innocent fuckin' people who just liked to bet for a livin', an I got caught stealin' some penny candy, once, and he held my hand over the gas ring until it started to fuckin' melt. And the sunnuvabitch could never get enough money for booze and women. There was somethin' wrong with the guy. Ma was always pregnant, so he was after her, and still he hadda screw everything in a skirt. But that wasn't good enough for him, either. Ma would try to keep money for us to eat on and when she wouldn't give it to him, he'd beat her. Beat her and hold her arm behind her back, push her on the floor with her face in the carpet and pull up her skirt. Right in front of alla us. And when she was knocked up real big, he was at Edie. An' I was too little to stop him, too little ta stand up to him, and if I tried, it was the same for me. Beatings…and otherwise. I know just how you felt, kid. I felt that way every day of my life, till I got big enough an' old enough an' strong enough to kill the motherfucker. But even then, Jesus, he was my Pop. He wasn't always bad to me, to us, an' he was my father, yunno? I look in the fuckin' mirror, an' there he is. Hiya Pop. See youse in Hell. I know how ya feel, kid. I really fuckin' do."

That was as much as Eddie every told me about Hell up in East New York, and it's as much as I ever wanted to know.

"Eddie, d'you think if we never hadda go through that kinda shit, we woulda had a chance?"

"Who knows, kid? Maybe I wouldn't be the black-hearted sunnuvabitch I am if I didn't grow up with Mick the Merciless for a father. Then again, maybe I would. Ya can torture yourself, thinkin' like that. But, you an' me, we got what we got, and we ain't so bad. We came down on the right side, didn't we?"

"Yeah. I dunno, Eddie. One way, knowin' what it is that's been eatin' at me all these years, I feel better. On the other hand, I feel worse. I dunno how I feel."

"Well, me an the Bat, we put youse through some changes, and now it's all out in the open. I ain't surprised ya feel so bad. But at least ya know where ya stand. When ya wake up in the morning, it'll all look better, I know ya, kid. You can take it."

"I wish you an' Bruce hadn't killed 'em all. I'd like to get my hands on some of those cocksuckers."

"You know what, Liv? If I could, I'd dig the sons of bitches up and you an me could kill 'em all over again. Together. But, it ain't like we stomped 'em out for good. There's plenty more of those Friends of Humanity fuckin' Nazis sprung up ta take their place. An' when we happen ta get hold of any of 'em, they're gonna wish their fathers had never met their mothers."

You might think that's a helluva thing to comfort a person, but you're not me and you're not Eddie, and I hope you didn't see a cult murder your mother in front of you in one of the most horrible ways possible, or grow up with a sadistic drunken psychopath.

"Hey, for what it's worth, ya done good tonight. An' as for that plan me an' Bruce an' Crazy Jack cooked up, the Bat and me shoulda pulled out of it when Crazy Jack did. It was a lousy fuckin' idea. I'm sorry I ever made youse and Paulie go through with it."

"That's awright, Eddie. I aint gonna hold a grudge over it. Not after all this. I'm lettin' it go."

"Good. Look, try and go to sleep, kid. You know what the best thing about all that shit is? It's over. An ya lived through it, an ya grew up to be the kinda person who ain't about to ever let anythin' like it happen to ya, again. An that's on your own, without me. Anybody tries to come at you, kid, killin's too good for 'em. It's okay. I gotcha."

It's like what Sophie says about a bad man. Well, I know I'm a bad, mean woman, and I ain't never done no man no good, like Janis said.

You see, a good woman knows she can find another man, but a bad woman knows she can't.

"Ya know somethin', kid? Now you remember what happened, you won't ever have that nightmare, again." Eddie told me.

Lying there in my bed with Eddie, with everything said and done, I felt just a little bit of peace.

Eddie said I could go to sleep; he said he was lookin' out for me.

So here I am, home, in my own bed for the first time in a week, but it seemed like a helluva lot longer, and I knew that by this time Dick was probably in his bedroom, sawing logs, and Bruce was either in his room, reading, or in the Batcave, and Alfred was making sure all the lights were out before he went to bed.

And I was in my bed with Eddie, curled up close, falling off to sleep.

But.

But I wasn't wearing anything and he had his boxers on, and I guess he was just going to pretend nothing was happening because he figured there was a time and a place for everything, but this wasn't the time or the place?

But, ya know somethin' funny, I sorta felt like I needed him, and not just in that usual hubba hubba hump-a-thon horny horny kind of way; it was like some other kind of thing, too, that I just don't have the words for.

So what I did was, I hooked one of my thumbs under the waistband of his shorts and started tugging it down his hip.

It was real dark in the room, and I couldn't see his face, but I heard him laugh.

"Don't laugh at me, Eddie. I fuckin' hurt all over, I feel like I got stuffed into a sack and beat with hammers, but, I need you. I need you, bad."

"Yeah, kid. Me too."

We just stayed like we were, on our sides, facing each other, and the funny thing was it all started off pretty slow and easy, but we ended up really locking horns, it was crazy and desperate, I gotta tell you, but it wasn't like that last time, where we both had something to prove and we sort of came together and I was surprised at just how good it was.

Like there was something else going on, something I just don't have the words for.

And then, we were all quiet and sleepy again, and I know I fell asleep first, feeling quiet and sleepy and good.

Somewhere that night I had a dream about my Ma, but it wasn't a nightmare.

I always have the same dream about Ma.

We're in the bunker, in the kitchen, and I'm at the table, and she's cooking something on the stove and she tells me as soon as she's done we're going to the park to see Paulie and Laurie.

It's a real good dream. In my dream, I feel different; I feel the way most people feel who aren't a drunk and a whore and a killer, yunno?

Anyway, though, it always ends with me going into my parents' bedroom and Ma's sitting on the bed and she looks sad, real sad.

She tells me we can't go, because it's raining.

And it is raining, and there's thunder and lightening, and then I wake up.

This time, it ended differently, though; the way it ended was when I came in the bedroom Ma was all dressed and smiling and happy and she said we were going to the park.

And she picked me up and carried me into the elevator, and when we got off the elevator we were in the park, and it was sunny, real sunny and she puts me down and she's smiling and she tells me to go run and play, and I'm running, and the sun's in my face and I'm laughing and there's Ma, smiling and waving at me.

And then I woke up, an' I was cryin', again, but this time I was cryin' because I was happy.

I think Eddie was right.

I'll never have that nightmare about Ma, again.

I'll never have that feeling again, either.

Ever.

***

I could tell it was early in the morning when I woke up, by the way the light was coming into the room, but, on that I must have fallen asleep around nine, that's why I woke up so early.

Eddie had his arm around me, and he was dead asleep, it was like having a weight around the middle of me, and we were so close together I was sweating, and usually that shit bothers me, but I didn't care.

I rolled over a couple of times to see if my body would still move, then I pulled the blankets down and looked at my chest.

The bruise wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

I been hurt a lot worse.

But the pain from the day before meeting up with the usual pain I'm in from all the days before meeting up, it didn't feel too great, and I grabbed the big bottle of Tylenol from my nightstand and swallowed four of them with this glass of water warm as piss and moaned into my pillow.

"That don't sound too good, kid. What are you gonna do when you're my age?"

So, Eddie's awake.

"Hurt more." I said.

I rolled over, again.

I was in this weird mood.

It was like while things were still up in the air, before I packed all my shit back into my brains, I wanted to get everything squared away, so I figured there was no time like the present to talk to Eddie.

"Ya know somethin', Eddie? I was really fuckin' mad at you. Really fuckin' mad. Double cross. Triple cross. I had that whole plan. I got Tony to get me and Paulie some stage prosthetics, and it woulda worked. You really woulda thought we was both dead. We were gonna get Bruce there, too. It woulda looked real, and you woulda ended up with little bits of what you thought was me and Paulie all over yourselves. Sure, it would just be raw pork chops and latex and Karo syrup with red food coloring, but, what the fuck was I thinkin' about?"

Eddie got up and walked over to the can to take a piss.

"Gettin' me back for breakin' your fuckin' heart. Same thing I was thinkin' about when I went ahead with that stupid fuckin' plan." He tells me.

"Yeah, Eddie, but I don't hold grudges and hatch revenge plots. When somebody stabs me in the back, I don't care who they are, I just…"

Then, I stopped.

He gets back into bed.

"Kill 'em?" he says.

Now, I kinda knew Eddie alla my life, he was Paulie's uncle, after all.

Sometimes he was around, you know, this big guy with a cigar who did a lot of swearing, and if Paulie and me got into some kind of real serious jam for a little kid, we knew he could get us out of it.

I found out he was the Comedian when I was 11, but I was used to masks, it was no big deal, he was still Paulie's uncle to me.

Then, I got a little older, and the first time I ever saw Eddie, in person and in costume was 1966.

I got up from my bed on Long Island, where I'd been lying for two days since I'd been shot in the guts by some half-assed wiseguy I sent straight to hell, to attend Captain Metropolis' Crimebusters meeting.

Since I had trained with Silk Spectre II under Silk Spectre I, and I'd worked with Rorschach and Nite Owl, I was hoping for an invite to join the Watchmen.

In those days, I was pretty sure the Justice League only made me a trainee in deference to Bruce.

I washed down three Percodan with whiskey and got in my car and drove to the city and got to the meeting in time to stand by Sally Jupiter and watch Laurie go in.

Then this car just parked any old way by the curb and there was Eddie.

I got this feeling, looking at him, and catching his act during the meeting only made it worse.

Logan wasn't the first or the last person to tell me I had a little too much rage and a little too much lust in my heart, and never to let the two mix, but just then, they did.

My guts were burning, my head was melting, and I knew that what I saw had to be mine. I'd die for it, I'd kill for it; if any woman had touched Eddie that night I would have shot her in the face. I may not have sat on his cock and put a gun to his head until 1971, but I decided right then and there that I could care less if he wanted me, I'd hold and gun to his head and tell him if he didn't fuck me I'd blow his brains out, and if the only way I could have him was to climb onto his dick while I had a gun to his head, fine by me.

I shouldn't have been out of bed, I shouldn't have taken so many pills, and certainly not with whiskey, and I wasn't used to having such strong, shocking feelings.

I tried to sit in the empty room until my head stopped swimming but my head wouldn't stop swimming and when I staggered out into the street I fell down.

I woke up in the back seat of Bruce's limo, with my stepfather propping me up in his lap.

I had taken two or three steps out the door and collapsed.

Eddie and Adrian found me lying unconscious, feverish, and bleeding in the street, did what they could to stop me bleeding, and called Bruce.

I still think to this day I didn't pass out from the pain or the wound opening a little, I passed out because that crazy feeling I had about a man I knew all my life that I was really seeing for the first time socked me in the guts harder than the bullet that had just been taken out of them.

That was how strong I felt about Eddie before I ever really knew him well.

And we had come within a hair's breadth of killing each other a few nights before, and I wasn't too sure if I was all done dancing that dance with the devil by the pale moonlight with him just yet.

You probably think there's something dark and evil in my attraction to my partner, but he's no worse or better than a lot of real tough guys and neither am I.

I'll bet you got somebody in your life that just does it for you, maybe it's somebody you trust, somebody you love, somebody that really gets you hot, or all of those things.

You sit there and think about that person, about the way they look lying in bed naked when you're naked and you turn your head and look at them and you think, man, that's it, that right there, and you get all hot and bothered and you figure, shit, I'm going over there right now and get me some of that whether or not they answer the phone.

Okay, now if you're not a triple-horny sex-mad bad motherfucker, imagine you are.

I had this picture in my mind of Eddie, naked, lying on his back with his hands behind his head, smoking a cigar and smiling at the ceiling, laughing to himself before turning to me to ask me if I was gonna stay all the way the hell over on the other side of the bed and stare at the TV all night or what?

I also remembered the look on his face when he had his hand around my throat just a few nights ago, and how mad I was, and how much I wanted to break his arm.

"Hey, Eddie? When you had your hand around my throat the other night, how bad did you wanna strangle me?"

"Pretty bad, kid."

"Yeah, well, I really wanted to break your arm. I could see the bone coming through your skin, I could hear it pop. You're a pretty mean sunnuvabitch, a violent guy, but you wanna know about not normal? I really wanted to hurt you, Eddie. But then, when you grabbed me an' kissed me, I forgot all about it. Immediately. I get so goddamn mad at you, sometimes, madder than I've ever been at anybody. And it makes me want to kill you. Because, I dunno, love ain't a big enough word for it. There's too much bullshit attached to that word that I don't want nothin' to do with. I could take just about anything. I have. But, you, you're in my goddamn blood, Eddie. It's blood between us. You know what I mean? How come you didn't just squeeze, Eddie? You said I broke your heart. You killed a woman for fucking up your face. Sally decked you for kissing her neck and you beat her half to death and tried to rape her. Breaking your heart, that's a helluva lot worse shit from a woman than a bottle in the face or a punch. Why'd you stop?"

So here we are, lyin' in bed, and I was turned over on my side talkin' to Eddie and then he turned over to look at me.

And he had this look on his face, this real un-Eddie look.

I'll bet he had that look on his face when he came in the night before, that was why he left the light off, and it was why he hadn't looked at me this morning.

Until now.

I got drunk with Sally once, and she told me about the un-Eddie look.

She said all the time she knew him, all the times she was with him, she only saw that look, once, and when she told me about it, she almost cried.

It was the reason, she said, that she never could completely let go of him.

A glimmer of gentleness, she called it.

I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about until right that moment.

Eddie put his hand on the side of my face.

"Kid, you are just about the meanest goddamn woman I ever knew. I've seen you kill a man and laugh at him while he's dying. Last night, Laurie was lookin' at you like she couldn't believe what you were doin' but it wasn't no surprise to me. You're still the only broad, hell, the only person I ever met who ripped a guy's living heart out of his chest with their bare hands. I know if Paulie really had gone bad, you would have killed him and made it look like an accident to spare his Ma and his sisters before you even blinked. Maybe you would have lost a few nights of sleep over Paulie. But if he was bad, he was bad. And over all the lowlives you've snuffed. Not a wink. And you think that makes you as bad as me. It don't. I know I'm batting for the good guys, but that don't make me any the less of a real bad man. And don't tell me how I got good in me, I know I gotta good side, but when some unlucky sunnuvabitch gets on my bad side, it doesn't matter who it is, they're gonna die. I killed my own father. And I have killed everything that walks, crawls or flies on this Earth, and I never knew anybody, anybody I could never kill. Except you." He told me.

Now you have to understand how important this shit was.

Eddie loved Sally. He still loved her, right then and there, and I knew he always would. But he was capable of beating the shit out of her and raping her, because he would have done it, as sure as shit if Rolf Mueller hadn't headed him off at the pass.

And if it had killed her, well, he wasn't thinking about it at the time, and, at the time, he didn't care.

That's why Sally, even though she loves him too, she takes Eddie in small doses.

As for everybody else in the world, Eddie has killed just about everything, male and female, young and old, human and animal, everything that does walk, crawl or fly across the face of this planet when he felt like he had to, and I've never seen him lose any sleep over it.

And me, shit, I'm Napalm, and I burn everything down.

I like to tell myself that there are people I could never kill, but everyone I meet I figure a way to kill them if I have to as soon as I can do it, and I hate to say it, but anybody I know, anybody, they push me the wrong way, I could kill them.

Except one person.

So here we are, two violent people, with two violent hearts of darkness as black as midnight in a coal mine, realising that we could no more kill each other than we could burn the stars out of the sky.

Like Janis said, you got to call that love.

"Yunno, Eddie, I think that's it. When I planned that shit, the fake death shit, it's not like I didn't know how bad it would hurt youse. I wanted to hurt youse, because ya broke my heart, and ya stabbed me in the back; I wanted to cut you down to the bone. Now, Logan's my blood brother, but in the oath we swore to each other, we said that if one of us betrayed the other, then that one dies by the other's hand. I got an adamantium machete, and if he did to me what you did, I would have cut his head off and thrown it so far away from his body he would have died chasing it, if he didn't kill me, first. And I wouldn't lose sleep over it, because that was part of the deal. But I could never kill you, Eddie. Never."

It was a real funny moment, because I probably had a real un-Napalm look on my face, too.

And I know, in the past, I tellya all about the dirty bits, but, this time, it's something I got to keep to myself.

If Eddie dies before I do, it'll be what I have left of him.

And if he dies violently, it'll be what keeps me going long enough to destroy whoever caused it.

Sure, I had the press to meet, and my car to fix, and a week in DC to pack for, and all this mental anguish and turmoil to pack neatly away into my mind, but just then, I wasn't thinking about it, because, it was a sunny afternoon, and I was with Eddie, and just then, I didn't want nothing else from life.

Nothing at all.


	8. We Are the Champions

**Chapter 8: We Are the Champions**

**Daily Planet: "New Superhero Coalition Stops Docklands Gang War" by Lois Lane**

New York City's docklands were the scene of a clash of as a small army of superheroes and their allies against a well armed, well organised group of henchmen employed by Moloch the Mystic in a plan to take over the docklands from the Joker, and eliminate several of his superhero rivals, including his arch-nemesis the Comedian's partner, Justice League trainee the Harlequin.

She was engaged in what Moloch believed was an operation to rescue three as yet unnamed kidnapped heroes being held by emerging supervillain the Green Jackal.

According to sources close to the Watchmen, the Green Jackal is not now and has never been a supervillain; he is an apprentice to the Nite Owl, and was sent undercover at Arkham Asylum as part of his training.

The docklands event that Moloch was using as the fulcrum to launch his attack was a training exercise for the Watchmen.

Details are not clear at this time, but in a statement released this morning, Ozymandias of the Watchmen has told the press that the Harlequin was working with Iron Man of the Avengers and the second Silk Spectre and had some intelligence as to possible supervillain intervention in the training exercise, and as a result she organised a strike team in case of emergency, and it was this strike team, assisted by the combined forces of the Comedian, Captain America and Wolverine, but planned form briefed, supplied and organised by the Harlequin that stopped Moloch's forces in the docklands last night.

Also, according to Ozymandias's statement, the Green Jackal risked his life at the site of the training exercise to contain Moloch until the Harlequin and the Silk Spectre arrived on the scene.

In a brief interview, Captain America promised that the major superhero organisation were going to plan and launch a major anti-crime initiative.

"The Harlequin has matured into a good soldier, a fine strategist, an expert detective, and a credit to all of us who wear a mask. Since she was 16 years old, she has fought this forgotten war, for the most part, alone for the benefit of the people of this city that it is my shame to admit that other heroes do not protect. Many people say, America, Love it or Leave it, and they look at people the Harlequin's age, as being the enemy. Our children are not our enemies. And just as the superhero community almost lost a brilliant young woman to addiction and despair, we, as a country, are losing a whole generation, one that feels betrayed by its leaders and abandoned by its heroes. Where only one brave young woman stood, we will now all stand with her. I say, if we love America, then we have to change it, or lose it. That spirit of freedom, of progress, and the will to make this country safe, free and united is what America is all about."

As for the Justice League of America, who will be inducting the Harlequin as a full member next Sunday at the Superhero Summit in Washington DC, Superman had only positive things to say about her and the new coalition.

"They say it takes a big man to admit he was wrong, and I admit it, I was wrong. Batman, who co-founded the League with me, and the Harlequin, who he trained from a little girl both came to me and tried to tell me what was happening to my city; but it was too horrible for me to want to believe. But I believe it now, and I think a coalition of superhero teams and a major campaign is the best way for us to deal with the crisis our city has fallen into. As for the Harlequin, we will be inducting her on Monday evening, during the opening ceremonies for the second week of the Superhero Summit. I couldn't be happier to see her overcome her troubles and take her rightful place among her fellow superheroes if she were my own daughter. It will be a great day for all of us, but moreso for Batman, who raised her like his own daughter, for her partner, the Comedian, who led her through some of her darkest hours, and for Wolverine, bound to her by a blood oath, and more importantly, by the bonds of their friendship and comradeship. It's their day, as much as it is hers, and, we're all hoping that our superhero coalition works out as well as the Harlequin's personal one has."

The Harlequin and the Green Jackal were not available for comment this morning, but a source close to both has said that the Harlequin will be speaking to the press at the opening ceremonies for the second week of the Superhero Summit on Monday morning.

**Saturday**

**Wayne Manor, Long Island, New York**

**I: Liv**

I woke up pretty early on Saturday, because I had a lot of things to do.

And that was before I even went to the garage.

The first thing I did after I got out of bed, careful not to wake Eddie, was get dressed and call Pete Parker.

Pete's a good scientist and a great mask, but he hasn't got two pennies to rub together. I'm thinking about hiring him to be my assistant next semester, but if he wants to keep himself in web fluid until then, he has to keep that old tyrant J.J. Jameson at the Daily Bugle up to his cigar in good mask shots.

Now I know Clark works for the Daily Planet and all, but Pete needs the dough, so I let him in on last night's scoop, and woke up wondering if he made it out in one piece.

When I got him on the phone, he thanked me a million times and told me to get a newspaper.

There I was, on the front cover of the Daily Bugle, with the docks in flames behind me, the chopper in my hand, beside the Wildcat, with Moloch pinned to the wall by the car.

Laurie was on the other side of the car, and you could see Paulie holding a gun on Moloch's henchmen.

Pete must have been hanging from the celing inside the warehouse to ge that shot. I don't know how he got in, or out, but hey, he's Spider-Man, that's what he does.

"GOTHAM'S BABY BOOM HEROES SAVE CITY!!!" the headline screamed.

Now that's what I call good ink.

But, before I went to fix my car and then departed with Eddie to DC to bask in my triumph, I had more important things to worry about.

I got on my motorcycle and drove back to the scene of the crime.

All cleaned up in the morning, the broke-down part of the docks we renovated didn't look much different, and when I came out of the elevator in the old man's bunker, he was reading my good notices aloud to Harley, from a stack of newspapers.

"Mistah J! She's here! She's here!"

"Here she is! My daughter, the Queen of New York! Livvie, that was absolutely brilliant! And Diabolical! And what a show, what a performance! Harley and I stayed up all night watching these old rusted hulks burn baby burn! The smell of smoke and gunpowder! Blood in the streets! Fear! Hellfire! Chaos! You got rid of Daddy's opposition, burnt down their strongholds, wiped out their forces, and managed to come out looking like a hero, saving the city from civil war. What a triple cross! I am so very, very proud of you!"

It was nice to see the Old Man so happy and proud, it seemed like everybody was happy and proud of me, today.

I had breakfast with the Old Man, and then I suggested we take a walk.

As we strolled through the smoking remains of my night's work, I told him that I had finally remembered what happened to my mother.

And I found out about the role him and Eddie and Bruce had in bringing her killers to justice.

You know, it's really hard for him to look heartbroken, but he did.

"I spent half your life hoping you'd never remember and the other half hoping you would." He told me.

"I don't want to talk about it too much, Daddy. I mean, I guess I'll get you and Pop and Eddie to all tell me your sides of the story, when I get a handle on it, but not right now. I just wanted to come by and tell youse that I think you did the right thing, and I'm not mad at you from keepin' it from me. I don't think I woulda dealt with it too well in the past. Now that I know, though, I gotta say, my whole life makes a lot more sense to me. Why I done the things I've done. Why I'm gonna keep doin' them."

The Old Man, he hugged me.

"I love you, Trivelino, And I loved your mother. I have never loved anyone in my life, I have no capacity for it. But there was something about your mother, something that lives in you. That's why I gave you to the Bat. It's why I wanted you to follow in his footsteps, not mine. I really am proud of you, Livvie. I want you to be the best superhero in the world. For your mother. She would have wanted it that way."

For a minute, I thought he was going to cry, and I haven't seen my father cry since the day my mother died.

"Let's go back to the bunker. We'll take a little drive and I'll take you to visit her."

"I might cry, Daddy."

"That's alright, Livvie. I probably will, too."

**Washington DC, Monday- First Day of 2****nd**** Week of 1974 Superhero Summit. **

**Tony**

"Jarvis, where's that suit you picked up yesterday from the cleaners? I have to wear that suit. Where did it go?"

"Sir…"

Jarvis had been acquainted with his employer since Mr. Stark was a little boy in short pants, and the years hadn't changed him much.

He had always been wilful, eccentric, intelligent, and relished a challenge.

Perhaps that was the source of this…fascination with the Harlequin.

Tony rushed from one room to another, a drink in his hand, the blue light coming from the ingenious device in his chest growing brighter and brighter as he rushed back and forth.

"…where the hell is it?"

Jarvis intercepted his charge, removed the glass from his hand and handed him the suit in question.

"Right here, sir. And, may I suggest that, since you are representing the Avengers in the weighty matter of welcoming a new member into your community at the Justice League induction ceremony, you should probably be sober."

"You're absolutely right, Jarvis. I can get drunk with Liv and Eddie, later."

"What about your five drinks per day, sir?"

"That's suspended for special occasions. This is a special occasion."

"Considering that you have designs on the Comedian's partner, sir, isn't that a bit…morally suspect?" Jarvis asked.

"Of course not. I have no desire to sever their partnership, or interfere with the course of their charming, but twisted and tainted love. I just want Napalm to come and work for Stark Industries. And join the Avengers. And they do have an open relationship, and what's the harm if I take advantage of that, every once in awahile? I know Liv won't object."

Tony Stark shrugged his suit-jacket on, and straightened his tie.

"After all, what's a little fucking between friends?" he said.

"Much, sir. Much." Jarvis opined.

"Logan has his own day of the week. I want one. That shouldn't be too much to ask. Well, Jarvis? How do I look?"

"Like a trapper, sir, who keeps finding his lures empty and the bait missing, but no sign of his quarry in sight."

"You have a point, Jarvis."

Tony started to undress.

"The blue pinstripe, Jarvis, I think the trousers are tighter."

"Yes, sir."

**II: Logan**

After careful consideration, Wolverine decided that rather than put on a suit, which he detested, he'd just wear his costume.

He wasn't too fond of it, but at least it was a suit he could deal with.

"Not wearing a suit, Logan?"

"This is a suit, Charlie. You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

"I am thinking that I can't believe the troubled, violent alcoholic young woman who slouched into my office with two fingers taped together and fresh stitches in her chin, with a broken arm in a sling and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth actually made it."

"You can thank Eddie Blake for that. She's the same Wildcat, though."

"Not really, Logan. Once, Liv was a slave to her unharnessed abilities, her anger, and her vast intelligence. Now she's the master of them. Today, you go and enjoy your friend's triumph. She deserves it, and after the part you played in it, so do you?"

"Me, Charlie? It's only Wednesdays."

"Who was the first man crazy enough to put his hand under the mad dog's foaming muzzle? And there have been many Wednesdays since 1970. You're a good friend to Liv, Logan. You have been for many years. If she is…partially domesticated, then you've had a great deal to do with it. This is your triumph, too."

"Well, they say every dog has it's day, Charlie. This one's Liv's." Logan chuckled.

**IV: Bruce **

Out of all the people who thought this day would never come, none had suspected so strongly and were so glad to be wrong as Bruce Wayne.

Liv had been a sunny, happy, spunky little girl. Remarkably well-adjusted, considering her wayward upbringing.

Extremely bright, the tomboy type, Levis and overalls and Keds and pigtails.

She began to show interest in following in his footsteps immediately upon coming into his life, a little girl eleven years old, who had learned to call two very different places home, and was taught in both to trust no one.

But Bruce was a mask, like her father, her father who told her to go and stay with The Bat and treat him like she would treat her own Dad, that he was a man she could depend upon and trust.

It took Bruce and Alfred and Dick all of two weeks to fall in love with little Liv, and for her to embrace them, as well.

Bruce trained her in the art of being a mask, and what he didn't know about being a woman and a mask, he sent her to Sally Jupiter to learn, along with Laurie, her daughter.

Liv excelled in all of her training, from the technical aspects to combat, and Bruce was the proudest father in the Justice League.

After she left FDR High in Brooklyn, Bruce insisted Liv go to college and find what she called a day job.

Some day job.

Liv went to NYU at 15, and at 16 she began her career as the Harlequin.

She pursued a double major in quantum physics and history, with a minor in genetics and evolutionary biology She graduated Magna Cum Laude at the age of nineteen, and began teaching history classes as a part-time graduate student, and also worked as an assistant to Dr. Manhattan in his lab. Her illustrious employer, and all of her professors agreed that she was a brilliant historian and a brilliant scientist.

She liked the blues and rock music, and fast cars and rock concerts, and guns and the occasional fight, but she was active in the civil rights movements for blacks, mutants, and women, and began her her mask career as one of the youngest trainees the Justice League ever had.

He seemed to have succeeded.

Bruce thought that he had managed to steer Liv past the dark heritage and violent upheavals of her parentage and her birth.

But then, the Joker in her reared his ugly, cackling head.

Whether it was the mission she had charged herself with, plunging herself, at the tender age of 16 into the darkest parts of New York's concrete jungles that Bruce had tried so hard to wrest her from, or whether it was the slings and arrows of adolescence, or genetics, or whatever reason, at the same time as she began her climb, Liv also began to fall.

With all of her accomplishments, it was easy, at first, for him to say that she was young, and that young college kids often drove their cars too fast and went out drinking here and there and everyone got into the occasional fight.

There was, however, nothing occasional about it.

The old saying goes that when you work hard, you play hard, and when your work is being a one woman cleaning-crew for all the scum in New York City, bar fights, car crashes, alcoholism, promiscuity, and the occasional dalliance with jacks and morphine to dull a thousand pains from a million injuries doesn't seem like playing too hard.

But the same Liv got up in the morning and went to school with a great deal of success and later put on a white coat to go to the lab, or a clean pair of cords to teach a class, and then put on her costume and waded back out into the sewer every night.

She told him she could take it and he tried to believe it.

She would be gone for days, sometimes weeks at a time. Joe Mac tried to be Bruce's eyes and ears out in the street, and Liv was often holed up in one of the rooms over the bar in Bensonhurst that hisd father, John McClatchey owned, and it got so Bruce was glad that they were watching her, that she wasn't somewhere alone and drunk and violent and desperate.

Often times, though, she was.

Alone and drunk and violent and desperate, another madman, rabid and foaming, roaming the mean streets of the sprawling concrete jungle.

The line between work and play began to blur as his spunky, pretty little child began to careen out of control, accumulating scars and tattoos and bad habits, devolving rapidly into a violent drunken brute, hell-bent on nothing less than complete and total chaos.

Too many nights she came home with blood on her hands and on her jacket, dripping from the chains onto the black leather. Too many nights she didn't come home at all. She went to work or to class hung over, with black eyes and split lips, stitches and lumps and bumps and bruises and scrapes cracked ribs and expensive dental work, sprains, a tender jaw, fingers taped together, knuckles permanently bluish from being broken so many times.

At the most she would return to Wayne Manor with a cigarette in her mouth and a bullet somewhere in her body, or holding a bloody bandanna against a wound from the stab or the slash of a knife.

She admitted that some of it came in the course of doing her duty as the Harlequin, but some of it came from wild times and hard living.

She never had much to say about it, she'd only laugh and say to him in her cocky Brooklyn tough guy accent, "The joke's on me."

Worse, the only person she knew, the only person Bruce knew, who could understand her need for violence and chaos was her father.

And even the Joker hadn't wanted her to go down that road.

He communicated with his enemy in code over the Society's secret distress frequency when he found Liv, out in the street, in places where even Batman didn't know where to look, and didn't want to think about.

Go to this location, answer this pay phone.

His arch-enemy on the other line.

She's with me and she's safe, I'll take care of things and send her home, soon.

Batman never asked the Joker what those things were; he didn't want to know.

Terrible things were beginning to happen, terrible things that could have turned Liv to the dark side, terrible things that culminated in her coming home in the middle of the night, badly beaten, repeatedly stabbed and bloody, chunks of her hair missing and pieces of bloody scalp showing through with her clothes in rags and tatters half-dead and confessing to Bruce that one of her one-night pickups had become violent on her.

He had beaten her, viciously, and stabbed her, repeatedly, and attempted to forcibly sodomize her, an action which resulted in him meeting a violent end.

"I didn't let the motherfucker make a punk outa me, Pop. He didn't get in. I woulda let him live, but he had a knife, an' he stabbed me, you can see he stabbed me a coupla times. Beat the hell out me, too. What was I supposed to do, Bruce? Bend over and grab my ankles? Fuck him. Nobody makes a punk outa the Harlequin. The joke's on him."

The victim was a rapist-murderer who had three victims under his belt before he lost his life in what the Times called "a shockingly brutal end to a shockingly brutal man. The Brooklyn Slasher was foiled by Justice League trainee, the Harlequin. She must be a very strong and determined woman; she beat him to death with her bare hands."

Beat him to death was a bit of a misnomer. After he saw to it Liv got medical attention and left her in Alfred's capable hands, Batman went to the crime scene and found that Superman was already there, overseeing his trainee's handiwork.

Clark looked grim, almost green-faced, and with good reason.

Liv spent three days in the hospital, but she had destroyed the man.

The Brooklyn Slasher looked like he, himself, had fallen victim to a crazed multiple murderer.

His teeth were scattered all over the room like Chiclets. One-fourth of the bones in his body were broken; his face was an unrecognizable bloody pulp and he had to be identified by the dental records of the few remaining teeth in his shattered jaws. One of the body's arms had been torn right out of its socket, and one of the eyes gouged out, among other horrific injuries. The ruined body looked like someone had set a pack of wild dogs on it; it was clear he had been torn apart by the brute strength of some mad animal, crazed with pain, motral terror and rage.

He could have died from aspirating his own blood from his punctured lungs that had been destroyed by his shattered ribs. He could have bled to death from the massive trauma associated with impromptu amputation. Even shock from the horrible pain he died in might have killed him.

The autopsy, however showed that he choked to death on his own genitalia, which had been physically torn off his body and rammed so far down his throat that they were not discovered until the autopsy.

That kind of anger, that kind of brutality had shocked even the Batman, who had stood before the League and been chastised for his own draconian methods many times.

That kind of rage and viciousness was beyond the pale.

After the killing of the sex murderer, Liv was heralded as a hero by the press for the first time, but Bruce knew that this act of extreme ultraviolence had set her walking a fine line between being the superhero she had always dreamed of being, and the supervillian she and Bruce both secretly feared she was going to be.

He realised couldn't control her anymore, and he couldn't teach her anything else.

He expected Clark to want to expel her from the Justice League, but Superman looked upon the brutal event as proof that Liv was descending into madness; he suggested that Bruce get her some help.

Superman was right, Liv degenerated completely after the slaughter of the Brooklyn Slasher. She spiralled into madness and drunkenness, going on a binge of ultraviolence, booze and pharmaceutical heroin that eventually led her to go cold turkey and flee north in her beloved Wildcat, where her odyssey ended in a pool of blood and broken glass, shot and left to die by the side of a lonely road in the Yukon Territory.

Her long road to this day began then, first with her fortuitous meeting with Wolverine, and her realisation that she had to turn her life around, and then, when she returned to New York…

The Comedian.

A Devil's deal that Bruce brokered, himself.

He could only think of one man who consistently walked that tightrope between heroism and villainy, between rough justice and ultraviolence, between might harnessed in the service of right and the strong terrorising the weak.

Eddie Blake had been a good influence on Liv. She got a proper costume, and finished her training. She reined in the drinking and the fighting and the running around with strangers stopped after she met New York's unluckiest sex killer. Her work improved, she completed two Masters' Degrees, her whole life improved.

She'd had only one incident of her Troubles in the whole two and a half year period that she worked with the Comedian, and she now seemed to realise that she had to put them behind her, forever.

She was an accepted member of the hero community as his partner, and her life and her career, both with the mask on and off were back on track.

Was it love that had saved her?

"So, Bruce, are we going to try to get Liv away from him, now?"

Batman was startled out of his reverie.

"Dick, can you please leave that alone for just one day?"

"I'm sorry Bruce. But I still think the price you made Liv pay for today's victory was too damn steep. With all due respect, you've never been able to see that Liv Napier is not Jack Napier. Liv was always a good person. Even when she was getting drunk and getting into trouble, she was still going to school and to work and doing her job. She was never a murderer, she never killed anyone unless she had to and she never so much as harmed an innocent person. You know yourself that troubled childhoods breed tortured adolescences. You didn't have to give her away to that brute Blake to save her from growing up to be Daddy's Little Girl. But, even if I'm wrong, and you're right, what's done is done. The Comedian and the Harlequin are partners. When you're convinced that the red button has popped out on my sister, you can't just go and shake the Comedian's hand and say thanks and take Liv back like a turkey you hired out for a baker to cook. Blake's not letting his partner go until he wants to, and Liv isn't leaving her partner until she wants to, either. And…I don't like to talk about these kinds of things, but, whatever's going on between them, it's not love, and I don't think either one of them is going to give it up. You introduced fire to gasoline, and they split the atom. What's done is done, Bruce."

Bruce Wayne sighed, resignedly.

"That's where you're wrong, Dick. Love is exactly what there is between them. And if you can't accept that, so be it. I don't like it. But I can live with it."

Dick Grayson shrugged.

"If that's what my sister wants, then I'm behind her. Let's not be sad, Bruce. This is a happy day for all of us. Let's go."

**IV: Liv**

"Are you sure you don't want to change, kid?"

"Hell, no, Eddie."

I opened the big double doors of the Hall of Justice, and, I almost died.

There they were.

Everybody in the League, and all of the Avengers , and all of the Watchmen and most of the X-Men and pretty much every goddamn mask in New York had showed up to see little Liv Napier make good.

Not to mention the so-called Gentlemen of the Press.

I calmly walked down the aisle and up to the podium where Clark was waiting for me, in the combat costume I had worn on Friday night, right down to the bulletproof vest with the hole in it.

I hadn't washed it, or my boots, and my clothes were pretty fairly encrusted with blood, gunpowder, soot and gun oil.

I could hear a murmur, and Dick had a funny look on his face when I met his eyes, but Bruce's eyes were completely cool inside his cowl.

I expected Clark to be upset, too, but he didn't seem to be.

He covered the mike with his hand.

"I suppose there's an explanation for this, other than your dry cleaner went on strike?" he quipped.

"There is, Clark."

"That's good enough for me."

Clark took his hand off the microphone, asked me to raise my right hand, and administered the Justice League Oath.

After I took it, before I was formally accepted, I had the opportunity to make a speech, and this is what I said.

And if you don't believe me, you can get the transcript, just like I did to put it down, here.

"First, if I use any bad language, I want to apologise in advance. You guys all know me, and you know I've got a dirty mouth on me, but for some of what I have to say, darn it and golly-gee aren't going to cut it. I started training, formally, to be a mask when I was 11, but between growing up the way I did and spending some of my formative years in East New York and some other neighbourhoods in good old Brooklyn, you might say I was getting ready for it all my life. Because, there are parts of New York, you know, Broadway and Central Park and the Upper East Side and all that Park Avenue jazz and the groovy parts of town and the Village and all, they really are the way they seem the movies. But that's not the city most New Yorkers live in, and they're the ones I made it my job to worry about."

I stopped and looked around.

Everybody was paying rapt attention; even the press had stopped taking pictures for a second.

"It's a dirty job, the job I do, and I'm swimming in the deep end of the pool with the sharks. But, hey, somebody's gotta do it. Because everybody deserves justice. Not just rich people and smart people and nice middle-class people who can afford to rent to pay a mortgage on a house in the boroughs and go to work every day and keep their noses clean. The cops and every mask in New York take care of those people. The Harlequin takes care of everybody else."

I decided to open the next part with a little joke.

"Don't let your travel agent shit you, my friends, the city's a fucking jungle. Even for the people who can go to the courts downtown for their justice. If you're not a predator, you're prey. Especially when you're in the end of the pool where the shit floats and the sharks swim. All the kids who come to hang out and be hippies or make it in showbiz or go to college, they're all prey. And the forgotten people, bums and junkies and hookers and poor people who live crowded into the same tenements their grandparents and great grandparents lived in, cowering under the yoke of the mob and every other slob and two-bit criminal motherfucker who runs the slums, nobody gives a fuck for them. Except me. I do. They all know, everybody in New York knows, you got trouble where the cops can't or won't help, you call the Harlequin. I started trying to protect them and everybody else when I was 16 years old. Sometimes I work with the cops, sometimes I work in spite of them, and sometimes they turn the other way and let me do what they know they can't. It all depends on the situation, and what constitutes justice in it."

So far, so good.

"Now you all know that some places in this city the only law they got is the law of the jungle. Somebody's always got a knife or a gun or a piece of chain, or they wanna kick you and punch you and beat you with brass knuckles and trash can lids. They beat ya, they shoot ya, they stab ya. And you do the same. Somebody walks away. Sometimes the one who doesn't walk away, dies. I learned that from Batman, and I learned it long before, and I've known it since I was eleven years old. Maybe that's not the way the world is for other people. I hope for your sakes that's not the way the world is for all of you. But that's the way it is for me, and for a lot of the people I've made it my mission as a mask to protect. You don't need to go to 'Nam to find the Heart of Darkness in the deepest part of the jungle. We got all that shit right here in New York."

"That's right, baby! You tell it like it is!" Luke Cage yelled.

He knows exactly what the fuck I'm talking about.

I went on.

"Since I got apprenticed to the Comedian and sober enough to start to implement some of the finer points of my training, I've managed to raise my mission to a higher and more efficient level than just going out every night and kicking ass all over town. I may do more for people now than I used to, in a sense of really helping them with their problems rather than just being a jumped-up enforcer in a boiler suit. But I never changed what my mission is, and I won't, and I'm still not afraid to get blood on my hands. A lot of the time, I do. It's the nature of my work. Dirty work."

I stopped and had a drink of water.

"Which brings me to why I'm standing here in front of you in a ripped costume with blood all over it. You all know what went down on the docks on Friday night. For one thing, I almost went down. This hole here, in my vest, it came from a bullet from a .357 Magnum, at close range. I got a helluva bruise under it. It was bleedin' pretty good for awhile there, but hey, nothing serious and here I am, right? Right. No flashbulbs, please, fellas, I'll give youse a nice close up later. This is what I was wearing that night. It's sooty, because there was a lot of smoke, and fire, and it's greasy and pockmarked because I did a lot of shooting with a Thompson submachine gun, but I guess the thing hat most of you are noticing is all the blood. Some of this blood is badguy blood, the blood of the thugs who tried to take over the docks and start a supervillain gang war that really woulda turned the whole city into Hell with the lid off. Not to mention they really tried hard to kill at least six of us. One of them the Green Jackal, a guy I've known, with his mask off, as long as I can remember. A lot of it is Wolverine's blood; they shot him to pieces, nearly shot him in two, and I could care less if it wouldn't kill him, I went out with my chopper to cut down the bastards who were shooting him up. Then I helped put him back together again. Anyway, I was pretty close to the sons of bitchse who shot Wolverine all to bits when I blew them to Hell, and I got little bits of them all over me. I'm not sorry about it. Like I was telling Cap, I took an oath when I became a trainee to put my life on the line if I had to in order to preserve the life of another mask, and there wasn't an addendum that said unless the man was a mutant with advanced healing ability. Besides, Wolverine's my friend, and it's blood between us. I'm funny about my friends, like that. You can ask my partner. I jumped out of an airship fifty feet above the ground and shot, sliced, beat and scalped my way through a gang of murderous Knot-Tops to put my back against his, toss him a loaded gun and do what I could to save his life. You see, I think justice should be like the sun in the sky. The sun shines on everybody, equally, gives them heat, and light, and sustenance no matter who they are or what they've done, every single day of their lives. You know when I figured that out? On all the mornings I woke up face down in the gutter, or in a filthy bed at some flophouse with my teeth feeling loose and my jaw swollen up, or staggering to the subway on a grey winter morning after being up all night, holding my hand over a stab wound or a bullet hole, trying to get home before I passed out. The sun found me, every day, no matter how low I'd sunk the night before. So, my mission is to see to it, to the best of my ability that I can bring justice to people who have lost hope, with the same equanimity as the sun brought light to me, when I had nothing else but sunlight."

I pointed to one of the stains on my chest.

"Ya see, if it's not innocent blood, blood doesn't bother me. But, some of this blood on me is mine that I don't mind shedding for the sake of my mission. My blood sure as hell ain't innocent. You see this stain right here? On the combat vest, around the bullet hole? This is my blood. I've been shot, I've been stabbed, I've been beaten and bludgeoned and broken my bones and I've done the same to my foes, and I'll keep doing it until I'm too old or I've died with my boots on. I'm not like the rest of you, and I know it. My hands will never be clean. I been a drunk, and I'm a killer. I do the dirty jobs that no other mask will touch for the forgotten people that no other mask will help. I ain't good, I ain't decent, and I sure as hell ain't innocent. The only way I can show ya my honour, my loyalty, my honesty, and my dedication to my duty is with my blood. And my word. Well, this is my blood, and by my blood, this is my word. An' you can take that shit to the fuckin' bank. Thank youse."

Eddie was the first one out of his seat, clapping and whistling, followed by pretty much every other mask in the room.

I got a goddamn standing ovation.

And I meant it. I know it's a piece of shit world and that civilisation, in theory and in practise is nothing but a big fucking joke, but somebody has to mind the goddamn store for the people who suffer from the Big Lie, and somebody who believes in all the bullshit isn't about to do it.

But here I was, 25 years old. A quarter of a century. Seems pretty young, and I know it is, but I never expected to live this long. You see, before I met Eddie, I never got out of the shark-infested cesspool. And I sank into it right to the bottom. I can't tell you much about what I did, between the time I graduated college at 19 and I was apprenticed to the Comedian at 22.

And its' not just because I was a fucking pathetic drunk.

It's because when you live in the sewer the gutter looks like a trough and that's where you eat and when you drink.

It's poison, of course, and it poisons you.

You know who the first man I ever slept with was? Me neither. It wasn't Joe Mac.

I don't know who he was. He was a lot older than me, and I was thirteen and drunk already, driving around illegally with blocks tied to my feet because I was only four-foot-nine.

You don't know how it feels to be a sin-eater, to take on everything that's black and evil and bad, take it right into your black, evil, bad heart and pay it out in blood and bruised flesh and broken bones. I told you already the itch separated me from myself and from the world; it was the itch that drove me, the itch, that rage for blood and I drove myself the way a bastard drives a dying horse into the mud, whipping it all the way down.

When you spend all of your time seeing nothing but pain, and blood, and human suffering and misery, nothing but filth and death and backstabbing and corruption, you begin to forget that there is any other law than the law of the jungle. Especially when you're travelling not only to the black recesses of the heart of darkness of the city that never sleeps, but also to the foul, stinking depths of the merciless heart of darkness that beats in your own chest.

Before you know it, you become a beast, yourself, a dumb animal who kills to prevent being killed.

I went out every night expecting it to be my last and I never cared if it was.

I went from day to day and car to car and fight to fight and man to man and drink to drink, not in a haze, but in a fury, a single-minded, relentless fury, driving myself on to oblivion, to absolute zero, to the deepest, darkest part of the forest, like they say in the fairy tales.

I met him in a bar in the Bowery, and followed him drunk to a flophouse nearby. The old nursery rhyme says that journeys end in lovers meeting, and he was the end of the line for me.

My supervillain, my arch-nemesis, a no-good murdering, torturing raping son of a bitch that if I killed him I'd get a fucking medal.

He was my masterpiece, just like Mary Kelly was Jack the Ripper's. When they found him, he looked a lot like she did, as if he'd been torn to pieces by a wild animal, pretty much because he was.

I had found the most evil man the city could throw at me, and I had killed him in the most brutal way I could, and even as I stood there in the room with the body, blood and gore drying all over me, I didn't feel any better.

I was tired, and sick, and a little terrified of myself, and the itch was still there.

The rage had not abated.

I went mad after that.

You know what I'm gonna say, don't you?

The joke was on me.

The doctor called it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but whatever the fuck he wanted to call it, I went stark, raving mad.

I had been blind drunk for about a month, doing jacks and morphine like mad and telling myself it was for the pain, never sleeping unless I passed out, barely even working anymore between the bad dreams and the bad memories and the fits of tears and the mad rages when Slim MacLeod invited me to come see him in Toronto, and I just got some money together and split, cold turkey, wagering it all on getting the hell out of New York.

And you all know I ended up bleeding, half-on and half-out of the driver's seat of the Wildcat, shot and left to die by the side of the road in the Yukon Territory.

But none of those things were the worst thing that ever happened to me in my life.

The worst thing that ever happened to me in my life happened at the Stop n' Stay motel in British Columbia. It was my first night in a bed in almost two months, and the second night I spent in Logan's company.

He went to buy some smokes from the front desk in the middle of the night, and I found an old Christopher Lee horror movie from the fifties on late-night TV, and when he came back he took off his pants and got a beer and got into bed beside me and put his arm around me.

You know I must have had a thousand men if I had one, and none of them ever did that?

And they say Logan's an animal.

He was the first man besides Joe Mac, who knew me since I was seven and was my best friend in the whole world who ever treated me like I was a woman, no, like I was a human being, and not an animal.

It made me realise what a mess I had made of my life, and my training, and my own hopes and dreams and those that everybody who loved me had for me.

And I was ashamed.

My fellow masks, especially Bruce, they wanted to dive into the dead, dirty ocean of blood and puke and piss after me, where I was drowning, but if the sewer didn't kill them, the sharks would have.

That's why they sent Eddie down after me, because he was born and bred down there in the murky, poisonous depths, and he crawled in and out at will.

You might say that night in the motel room was when I realised I had a heart, but the first time I felt it breaking when I saw Eddie leap out of Archie and get swallowed up by a crowd of rioting murderers, because I knew he was my last, best hope for salvation.

Or maybe it was because I fell right in love with him before I even knew what it was, when I was a little kid and he was Paulie's uncle, and he coaxed me out from under the basement steps after some older kid stuck a knife in me and I was scared to come out.

So, maybe it's not that kind of love conquers all like you see in the fairy tales, coming out of those rose red and white lace Valentine's Day hearts, but, just like the sun shines on everyone, even a black heart can know love, but there's nothing sweet, nothing romantic and sentimental about it.

Nothing any normal person would even begin to understand.

That may be why Eddie had to drag me out, kicking and screaming, and it took me three years to learn the trick of living in both worlds, but I learned it, and all of the sudden I could see something I never had before in my life.

The possibility of a future.

And, with pretty near every mask in America clapping and cheering for me, and a whole bunch of hardened reporters, even though I was the Joker's daughter and the Comedian's partner and I had blood all over my costume, I knew the future was now.

That is some heavy shit, I gotta tell you.

Anyway, after the ruckus died down and everybody was back in their chairs, Clark shook my hand and formally accepted me as a member of the Justice League.

Then, he ushered all the members of the press out and the sealed the doors of the soundproofed room.

And it was time for me to make one last little speech.

"Okay, now that we're alone, I have to thank everybody. Obviously, I'd like to thank Bruce, for being the best stepfather and mentor the daughter of a psychotic supervillain ever had. And speaking of the Joker, I'm sorry about this, but I gotta thank my father, because ever since I was a little girl he told me and showed me that the last thing I wanted to be was a supervillian, and there were times when I was beyond what any of you could do for me, and there, in the darkest part of the murky depths, the Old Man dove in to save me. And I'd like to thank Logan for being my first real, true friend of the male persuasion that I didn't meet in grade school, and for being the first mask who I wasn't related to crazy enough to ever work with me. And how could I forget to thank Tony, for being so goddamn charming and good-looking. No, really, the Invincible Iron Man has always been in my corner, and I can't say that for a lot of people. But, and you're all going to hate me for this, even more than for mentioning Jack Napier, but most of all, I gotta thank my partner, Eddie Blake. You know, when I was 11 years old a 16 year old dope pusher who was trying to take over my playground stabbed me with a switchblade. Hurt me pretty bad, too . I smashed him in the face a couple times with a piece of a brick, to get him offa me, and then I got scared and I went and hid at Paulie's house, in his basement, under the stairs, crying and bleeding. And I wouldn't come out, I was afraid the cops were gonna come and get me."

"Nobody could find me, but Paulie's Uncle Eddie, he knew exactly where I was. He came downstairs and squatted down on the basement floor and told me that he was the Comedian, he was a mask like my stepfather and that and he'd make sure nobody was gonna come and get me, and that kid was never gonna come back and bother me and Paulie and Laurie again."

"So I crawled out and Eddie picked me up, way up in the air and and he carried me up the stairs to where my stepfather was waiting to take me to the hospital. From there on out, Paulie's uncle, he was kinda my hero. And, when I got older, just like he found me when nobody else could and pulled me out from under the stairs, Eddie pulled my ass out of the gutter and did for me what nobody else in this world could have done. I still don't know how he did it, but finally, I know why. Thanks, Eddie. You saved me. You're the best partner a girl called Napalm could ever have. Aw, the hell with it, I guess I do love you for it, don't I? Maybe ever since I was eleven years old." I finished.

Logan and Cap stood up, turned towards Eddie and started clapping for him.

"Take a bow, Eddie!" Logan suggested.

I don't know that everybody gave him a round of applause, but even Supes and Dick applauded, conservatively, and Eddie just stood there smoking, with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Come up here, Eddie. Say somethin'." I encouraged him.

So Eddie comes swaggering up to the podium, and everybody's looking at him.

You could cut the tension in the room with a knife.

Eddie pushed the box I was standing on aside, and raised the microphone.

"Jesus, somebody really did put a box here for the kid to stand on! Hey, Logan, were you gonna come up and say anything? Because I can put the box back."

"Fuck you, Eddie!" Logan yells.

Everybody laughs.

"Yeah, I pulled the kid out of a crack in my basement and she's been nothin' but trouble ever since. Thanks kid. I been a lotta things to a lotta people, but I'm pretty sure I ain't never been anybody's knight on a white horse hero, before. And the kid, she ain't much of a damsel in distress, but I never did like a dizzy broad like that. Jesus, I don't know what the fuck to say, so I'll just say what I'm thinkin'. This kid, she's my girl, an' I love her, an' if anybody don't like it, well, they gotta lotta doors in this place I can fuckin' kick your ass outa. I'm real proud of her that she proved alla youse wrong when you gave her to me as a lost cause. And here she is, the big hero, the toast of New York. It's like the kid to want me to take credit for it, but lemme tell you, she had her shit together before I started workin' with her. All I did was give her a few ideas, and some backup on the job, get her to be more choosy about the jobs she took on, an' convinced her to go to rehab. As for savin' her, I didn't save her. I showed her how to save herself. And she did it. As for alla youse that supported the kid, an thought she deserved a chance, thanks. And, for alla youse who just threw her at me because ya thought that she was no good an' like goes with like…"

Eddie hauls me over with one hand, and bends me back and kisses me, like in the old movies in the forties, and he flips everybody off with the other.

Good old Eddie, leave it to him to say thank you and fuck you in the same breath.

He got a pretty big laugh, and some people were still clapping, so it was okay.

"How's that for a big Hollywood ending, kid?" he says.

"Suits me, Eddie. When do we eat?"

"As soon as you change your fuckin' costume. You'll put everybody off their feed. And take a fuckin' shower. Ya smell like the beach at Normandy after we landed, for Chrissake. I'm havin' a fuckin' flashback."

So, there was this big dinner in my honor, and I didn't even drink more than my four drinks.

Now that's what I call progress.

Well, I did get into it with Adrian, and, yeah, I hit him, but not in the face.

In my defence, he did make a point of telling me that he thought my methods on the docks were "tantamount to war crimes" and that he was "still in opposition" to me being fully accepted as a mask.

I didn't hit him first.

Really.

I put my knife and my fork down, and convinced Eddie to put his knife down, and Logan to put his claws away, and Tony to send the suit back into stasis, and I made Bruce put him down without hurting him anymore.

You just can't hold a guy off the ground by his throat for an extended period of time, yunno?

Then, I told him, real calmly and rationally, that his gibes didn't bother me because I was smarter than he was, because Jon worked with me on a regular basis, not him, because Wayne Enterprises could crush Veidt International anytime we wanted, and that I felt bad for him because everybody in the Watchmen, even Dan, and retired masks like Hollis and Sally thought he was pompous, self-important, and officious.

At that point in time, he blew his cool, and called me a fucking dumb drunken Mick thug, and while he was asking me how I dared speak to him like that, yeah, I hit him.

Hard.

And I really did mean to punch him in the stomach, but I wasn't wearing my glasses and I left my contacts on the sink in Eddie's and my suite, so, I aimed a little too low.

What can I say?

Nobody's fuckin' perfect, right?

Right.

_(Author's Note: Well, gentle readers, we are almost at the end of our tale. Only one more chapter to go. But fear not! The prequel "Suicide Kings" is up under Comics-Watchmen-Comedian, and there will be not one [gasp!] but two, yes two sequels! It's a trilogy! And I promise, if I make the prequels a trilogy, there will be no characters tantamount to Jar-Jar Binks. ;) ]_


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